


There has been a flood

by dwellingondreams



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Dragonstone, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Egg's A+ Parenting, Everyone Has Issues, Extramarital Affairs, F/F, Family Drama, Female Friendship, Female-Centric, Gen, House Baratheon, House Targaryen, Incest, Infidelity, King's Landing, Male-Female Friendship, Miscarriage, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Underage, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Pre-Canon, Present Tense, Sibling Incest, Summerhall (ASoIaF), Targaryen Incest, The Rat and the Hawk and the Pig, The Red Keep (ASoIaF), Tragedy at Summerhall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-01-02 02:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 55,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21154265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwellingondreams/pseuds/dwellingondreams
Summary: "You saunter beside me, talking of the beauty of the morning, not even knowing that there has been a flood." - Margaret Atwood, "After the Flood, We."Mother pauses, having reached the end of all her curls, and then splays her palm flat on Argella’s head, as if to impart some wisdom or blessing. “He left Jenny Mudd at Summerhall,” she says quietly, because there are little mice and spiders and birds all around the Red Keep, and they all wind their merry little way back to Aegon and his upstart Hand. Argella’s impending good father has never been anything but kind, gracious, and conciliatory to her and her family. But they do not forget, and neither does he. Her father was one raven away from declaring rebellion against the Iron Throne when Aegon finally managed to bring his boy to heel.(Duncan weds Lyonel Baratheon's daughter, but refuses to set aside his beloved Jenny. Argella Baratheon dreams of rain, and waits for the flood.)





	1. the city, wide and silent, is lying lost, far undersea

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set during the reign of King Aegon V and his rebellious kids. It will update on Saturdays. 
> 
> It opens in 240 AC; Duncan is nineteen, Argella is sixteen. Aside from Aegon and Betha's children, the remaining surviving Targaryens include Daenora, Aegon's cousin and the widow of Aerion, and her young son, Maegor, who was passed over for the throne as a baby, Daella and Rhae, Aegon's sisters, the former wed to the current Evenstar of Tarth, with a very, very tall son by the name of Ser Tristan, the latter wed to Lord Celtigar with a few children of her own. 
> 
> Argella is the younger sister of Ormund Baratheon, canonically known as the father to Steffon, and the elder sister of Harbert Baratheon, best remembered as being an asshole to Stannis about his hawk. Her mother is a Wylde because this fic has a lot to do with rain.

It rains on the morning of Argella’s wedding. She wakes to the patter of water on the windows, and as the maids pull back the curtains, stoke up the fire, and bring buckets of water into the room to fill her tub, the rain gradually increases from a light drizzle to a downpour. Argella, sixteen and too tall and very tired, for she has never slept well in these rooms, and doubts that will change once she is moved into her new royal apartments, pulls the sheets around her shoulders like a cloak, and listens to it. In the stormlands there is at least one rain-shower a day, most days, even in the death grip of a summer like this, gone into its second glorious year. They will have a rich harvest come the changing of the seasons.

That’s not the case in the Crownlands, where it rains infrequently in the hotter years, sometimes going weeks without a drop so much as striking the ground. Argella watches the rain turn the high red walls of the keep glossy scarlet, just outside her blurry windows, and decides it is a gift from the gods to her. Not from the Seven, although she considers herself devout, but from Elenei to her. Elenei is the daughter of the Sea and the Wind, and when she dances across the sky, she shakes rain loose from the clouds. In the Crownlands they say that the rain is the Mother weeping for her lost children. In the Crownlands they say and do many things that Argella finds foreign and distasteful. 

“I’m sorry, m’lady,” one of her maids tells her sympathetically, as she undresses her for her bath. “I’ll say a prayer that the foul weather passes before the ceremony. We don’t want your gown to be ruined.”

“It will be ruined anyways,” Argella says, as she steps into the tub. “I have it on good authority that Mathos Celtigar’s bet money that he can strip it off me faster than Simon Swann.” 

The tub would be quite large for a small girl of sixteen, but Argella is a Baratheon, and never had much hope of being small. She stands six foot one and has powerfully built shoulders and thighs, which must be hidden, by the decree of courtly fashion, under mounds of silk and satin, to disguise a figure that is far from slender or pliable. The wind rattles at the windows, and she smiles as fingers work through the tangled hair at her scalp. 

“They wouldn’t dare, m’lady,” the scrubber ventures. “Prince Duncan would never stand for it. You’re to be his princess!”

“No,” Argella corrects, eyes still closed. She kicks her feet up to rest on the opposite edge of the tub; it’s really quite uncomfortable being hunched like this in two feet of rapidly cooling water. “I shall still be a lady, I’m afraid. When Duncan is king I will be queen consort. Never princess.”

A busy silence falls. She takes pity and lets them do their work in peace. Afterwards, she smells of milk and lavender. While her long ringlets are being combed out, and she is bundled in a robe, Mother comes in, pink-cheeked and worrying at her lower lip, although she still manages to find the time to berate the girl brushing Argella’s hair, taking up the comb herself and dismissing the servants from the room. Argella leans back into the familiar sensation. It’s been a very long time since Mother combed her hair. She has spent the majority of her time at court these past three years of betrothal, with an endless string of chaperones and guardians, primarily Queen Betha and her septa, occasionally her own parents. Argella stands a head taller than her mother, but sitting down it is easy to pretend she is a little girl again, and this simply any other feast or celebration.

“They say the rains should pass by midday, so the tourney will continue as planned,” Mother says, in that forcibly bright and gritty tone of hers, like broken glass or sand. “That’s fortunate, isn’t it? Ormund was so looking forward to it.” 

Argella makes a lazy noise of assent. 

Mother pauses, having reached the end of all her curls, and then splays her palm flat on Argella’s head, as if to impart some wisdom or blessing. “He left Jenny Mudd at Summerhall,” she says quietly, because there are little mice and spiders and birds all around the Red Keep, and they all wind their merry little way back to Aegon and his upstart Hand. Argella’s impending good father has never been anything but kind, gracious, and conciliatory to her and her family. But they do not forget, and neither does he. Her father was one raven away from declaring rebellion against the Iron Throne when Aegon finally managed to bring his boy to heel. 

“I told you,” says Argella peevishly, twisting around in her chair. “He’s not fool enough to bring a mistress to court so soon-,”

“You would be surprised,” Mother snaps, “at the lengths men will go to prove your judgement wrong, Argella. We will ensure that he never brings her to court. I’ll not have it. Your father will not have it. My grandchildren will not share their cradles with new Blackfyres.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Argella arches an eyebrow. “She’s barren. Daeron says Small Dunk’s had her a hundred times over by now, and she’s yet to get.”

“Or he’s yet to seed,” Mother pinches the end of her nose sharply. “I mislike this familiarity with the third-born. Daeron Targaryen is not your little friend.”

“Well, I think he’s wonderfully funny,” Argella twists her mouth into a petulant little mockery of a pout, “and it irks Duncan so, I can hardly help it.”

She stands up, moving towards her dress, draped pristine across the freshly made bed. “Call them in, won’t you? I hate to sit around in a robe.”

“This is the last chance I will have to speak with you for some time,” Mother moves after her, catches her by the hand. “Argella. Look at me.” Argella looks. Mother is a Wylde, so she is practically minuscule compared to the rest of the family, with ash blonde waves and a pert nose and small, grey-green eyes. Now they are hard as sea glass. “It is his shame, not yours. They will jape about it, during the bedding. You must block it out. Go somewhere else in your head,” her hand travels up to cup Argella’s far away chin. “Show him what can be gained from keeping to a wife’s bed. Remember what I told you, with Septa-,”

“I know what to do with a man, Mother,” Argella says irritably. “You can find them rutting in empty alcoves and stable stalls here, a whole menagerie’s worth. I wonder that there are not more Waters scurrying about.”

“Gods willing, there will be none from your man,” Mother lets go, then leans up on her tiptoes to kiss her cheek. “My fierce girl. Remember my words,” she jerks her head at the window, where the rain continues to torrent. “Elenei is watching over you.”

Argella holds Ours is the Fury close to her heart, but she was not raised to disregard her mother’s lineage, either, although they were never storm kings. You listen for the thunder. You hide from the wind. But you run from the rain, and the rising waters it brings. Those are her mother’s words, are they not? The words of House Wylde? “We rise with the waters.”

At Rain House, the wells never run dry. At Rain House, the walls are coated green with ivy and vines, and wreathed with mist, from the first day of spring to the last day of autumn. For all that she and Mother may be different as the night and day, it was Mother who taught her that the rain could be a different sort of fury. One that you did not even notice at first, the steady drip-drip-drip, building up to a crescendo, until it came bursting through every crack and crevice it could find, until it howled and surged and swept you off your feet, until it had scoured every surface clean.

Last night, during the little sleep she got, she dreamed of a walk with Ellyn Morrigen, her dearest friend. Deep in the Rainwood, they huddled under a great tree for shelter. Argella felt the wet moss under her fingers when she laid her hands on the trunk. Ellyn stood with her head back, catching raindrops on her tongue. Little tendrils of hair frizzed around her forehead. When she looked at Argella, her dark eyes were wet and shining. Argella wanted to let go of the tree trunk and hold her instead, but she could not. She was too afraid the storm would pass, and they would have to go home. They stood there instead, staring at each other, locked in a moment between raindrops.

She is glad they forewent the idea of a wedding breakfast. It is easier to make this sort of walk on an empty stomach, although her cousin Alys offers her rosewater on their way to the palanquin. She could only pick two ladies to ride with her, who will help hold her train as she enters the Great Sept of Baelor. She has no sisters, and could not favor one Wylde over another without causing offense, so she selected the Dondarrion’s only daughter, chipper Leona, and Ellyn. As Father hands her off to the litter-bearers, they both kiss sweetly on the cheek. 

Leona is so excited that her mouth glances off Argella’s chin instead. Ellyn watches her with her sad dark eyes and her raven dark hair, then steps forward solemnly and presses her lips to Argella’s cheekbone. The hair on the back of her neck prickles when Ellyn steps back, her hands clasped formally in front of her. Ellyn is wearing the teal green of her house colors, and aquamarine glitters around her pale throat. Argella thinks she has never looked lovelier than she does now, in her sorrow. 

Argella has many faults, and she will easily admit that that worst of them, like her father and Argella the Storm Queen before her, and her brothers after her, is her pride. She is a prideful, stubborn thing, and to see Ellyn so bereft brings some savage joy to her, although it is not Ellyn’s fault, it is not her fault, it is not anyone’s fault. “You are very beautiful today, Gella,” Ellyn tells her, in that refined lady’s voice they must always use when complimenting one another in public, an aesthetic admiration without any trace of want, of need-

“Oh dear,” Argella grins, although she does not feel it, as she is practically lifted up onto the litter, her skirts bundled up under her, her golden veil of Myrish lace already dotted with raindrops, “and after I am wed, shall I be counted as beautiful every day?”

“Of course!” Leona chirps, while Ellyn looks away. Still the rain comes down. Still the city sloshes red and brown around them. Still she pretends this is not what it is. It is her duty to carry on as normal. She was warned, first by Septa, then by Mother, in the tense months following Duncan’s attempted elopement, although even the knowledge that there was an attempt is privy to a select few. Most believe he simply happened upon a peasant who took his fancy, and chose her as a mistress, albeit somewhat indiscreetly. 

That is, she was warned never to speak of it with him. To pretend it never happened. To pretend he did not abscond in the middle of a trip to visit Riverrun and scamper off with a wench he met at Oldstones. “It will only invite bitterness and anger betwixt you,” Septa told her. “A marriage cannot survive on such things. You must put it aside- out of your mind, out of your heart, and pray he has the grace to do the same.”

“How can I?” Argella had scoffed. “He will not give her up.”

“In time, he may come to see your virtues. Not all men go firm into a marriage. You must be patient. When you have a child together, a little prince or princess, he is like to forget he ever knew her at all. Put it aside for now. Do not speak of it. A lady does not threaten or cajole her husband in such a manner. You remain gracious, and humble, and you abide, and you obey, and eventually, one develops an affection, a trust. Prince Duncan is a good man who made a mistake. Sometimes we women must lead by moral example. Men are weak to their lusts.”

“He did not say he liked to tumble her in bed,” Argella had said then, ignoring the scarlet flush flaring beneath that grey habit. “He said he loved her. He said she was the only one he could ever love. I heard him. He was prepared to abdicate for her. To throw me over and let Jaehaerys sit the throne. He would have given Celia Tully what was mine by rights. He would have had me sent back to Storm’s End in disgrace.”

“But he did not,” Septa had said tersely. “He saw reason, gods be good. He realized that duty must come before desire. He erred, but he came back to the light. You must guide his path, as the Crone does all ours. The burden of being heir is no easy thing. In time, you will find it in your heart to forgive him, to love him.”

Loving Duncan had never been something available to her. Argella could no more love him than she could wake with the moon and sleep with the sun. Forgive him, yes. Once, that had been something she could have done easily enough. She could have forgiven all sorts of slights- coming late to meals, or drinking too much at feasts, or pawing at her breasts, or sleeping with her chambermaids, or gambling money in taverns. What she could not and will not forgive is this. Not that he fucked a river maid. That he thought to bring her back to court and hand over his crown and claim to the throne. To cast her future into the fire the way one might a letter.

They could have been friends. They were friendly, once. Duncan was laconic and reserved but charming in his own way. He had endless amounts of patience for children and servants and animals. He could soothe an argument between his siblings with a few warm words or a bemused look. He was well-read and inquisitive. He both played the high harp and danced and jousted and hunted and sparred with ease. He seldom drank, seldom swore, and when he laughed his eyes crinkled shut. He was only three years her elder, something sure to make marriage more bearable. 

But Duncan is also aloof and headstrong and impulsive. He is insecure and yearning. He is happiest when on the road. If he could be a wandering hedge knight, as his namesake once was, he would. He is stubborn, nearly as stubborn as her. He knows how to brood and sulk and scheme, as all Targaryens do. He has his mother’s willful spirit and Blackwood pride. They could have been friends. Now she must do battle with him for the rest of his life, or go to her grave known as a king’s unwanted wife. She will be no Naerys nor Aelinor Penrose. Marriage is not a matter of finding a husband’s virtues, Argella has been forced to conclude. It is a matter of finding a husband’s weak spots, the cracks in the armor, and forcing your only weapon, your wits, between them.

The rain has lightened considerably by the time the litter navigates through the packed and screaming streets to the Great Sept of Baelor, but it is still there, pricking at her flesh. Father waits with her brothers outside; Mother will have already gone in. Father is tall and broad she must still gaze up at him, even now that she is a woman flowered and of age. He smiles fiercely, triumphantly, down at her now, but for once holds his tongue, other than to say, “There’s my girl.” and kiss her on the brow. 

Ormund’s mind is elsewhere from the distracted look on his squarish face; the tourney this afternoon, no doubt. She squeezes his arm, then bends slightly, despite the pressure from her stays, to kiss little Harbert, who is only ten. One day he will serve on the Kingsguard and be her leal man. For now he is one of many squires dashing after the Kingsguard, fetching saddles and armor. The wind ruffles at her veil as they begin the slow procession inside. Smallfolk are shouting her name and tossing flowers already half rotten down before her feet. Argella crushes them underfoot gaily enough, smiles bravely, as if expected of her, for no one wants to see a bride weepy on her wedding day, and enters the sept.

They’ve made her rehearse the ceremony several times now, so this just feels like another iteration of it. Father escorts her across the marble floor, under the massive glass dome, now spattered with rain, between the giant statues of the Father and the Mother, glowing dull gold in the candlelight. The air is thick with incense and flowers and wax. There are thousands of eyes upon her now, but to Argella it is no more than a methodical movement, like a sun dial. Duncan looks strange in the shadow of the stained glass; it casts queer colors across his long face. 

He has his mother’s looks; her dark brown hair and dark brown eyes, her long nose and sharp chin. But he has his father’s high cheekbones and long eyelashes and graceful neck as well. She wonders what little Jenny Mudd thought of him, when she saw him riding along the banks of the Blue Fork, dressed as a common traveler but undoubtedly regal in his bearing. When Argella first saw him she had been relieved he’d not inherited the Targaryen looks; she finds the pale hair and violet eyes of his father and a few of his siblings more strange than beautiful. Now she couldn't care less whether or not he was the very picture of Aegon the Conqueror or not.

Duncan. King Duncan, they will call him. No doubt his ancestors would be rolling in their grave to hear such a thing. Nearly a century and a half after the Conquest, and their line has been reduced to a dragon-less family, half of whom look more Northern than anything else, the firstborn of whom bears a commoner’s name and no crown upon his head. Duncan loathes to wear even a circlet. They have that much in common; she finds the headaches bothersome, else she would have some smith hammer her out the gaudiest monstrosity of a crown she could imagine. His hair is damp and plastered to his scalp; when they kiss, she tastes the rain on his thin lips.

Thankfully, they wait to toll the bells until the wedding party is coming down the steps of the sept, for they’d surely be immediately struck deaf otherwise. Argella smiles out at the crowds and waves, her hand locked in her husband’s. Her husband’s. She feels as though she’s slipped on a wet cloak, now clinging to her like a second skin. There is something very final about the sounds of these bells. The rain has passed, although the skies above are still blustery and grey. 

She wonders if the rain has moved further south, to Summerhall. She has never been, although it is much closer to Storm’s End than King’s Landing. Summerhall will someday belong to Jaehaerys and his wife, as tradition dictates. Duncan and her will have Dragonstone, that decrepit, ancient fortress, and Jaehaerys and his pretty Tully bride will have the lovely, airy summer estate. That’s alright. Dragonstone, much like Storm’s End, could outlast a siege for years if it had to. That’s what matters to her. She thinks of this Jenny, wandering the empty halls of the palace. Does she know today is her beloved’s wedding day? Is she weeping for the husband who could have been hers, had he defied his father, the Small Council, the Grand Maester, and the High Septon who just performed their marriage? Or is she bitter and furious, ripping down tapestries from the walls and smashing dishes?

Argella decides she doesn’t care, and squeezes Duncan’s hand. She doesn’t know why. To warn him, to mock him, to comfort him? He stares straight ahead, grave-faced as a man watching a burial. When he does smile, it is a wan ghost of one. He is heartbroken, she realizes then. To have to be with her, touch her, call her wife. His heart has split in two from this separation from his true love. Her cheek stings where an hour earlier, Ellyn’s lips had kissed it. Now Ellyn is just another face in the crowd of well-wishers, arm in arm with her husband, Lord Stokeworth. Argella feels that familiar spiderweb of loathing ghost along her spine. 

After the festivities are through, he will take Ellyn back to Stokeworth and resume attempting to get a son from her. They’ve not even been wed a full year. When Ellyn had informed her of the betrothal, Argella had raged like a man would, hurling a goblet at the hearth and nearly overturning a table. Ellyn had lingered on the edges of her vision, watching her hungrily, as if gratified by this display. They can be quite cruel to each other, the two of them, although Ellyn wed Lyonel Stokeworth because she was commanded to do so, just as Argella wed Duncan because she was commanded to do so. The difference is that Argella was promised a crown to go with the unwanted husband.

She wants to look at Ellyn as gravely as Duncan is looking now, wants to mouth sweet nothings at her, wants to be able to stare longingly off into the distance. But she cannot. She is to be grateful, oh so grateful, that he deigned to follow through with this marriage. So she smiles and blushes and holds his hand, and says not a single word to him, nor he to her. They’ve seemingly agreed on that much, at least. Best to delay the inevitable for as long as they can. 

During the opening ceremonies of the tourney, Argella sits above the stands and drinks wine and bites into a plump summer’s peach, the juice running down her chin, while Jaehaerys and Shaera murmur to each other behind her. Unlike their elder brother, Jaehaerys and Shaera, who are barely a year apart and often mistaken for twins, have significantly less of their mother’s Blackwood looks. Jaehaerys looks nearly identical to his father, Aegon, instead, with near the same haircut and face, although he is shorter than both Aegon and Duncan, who both stand well over six feet tall. Many men are shorter than Argella. Duncan is not one of them. She finds that to be very regrettable. 

Shaera looks quite similar to her aunt Daella, the one wed to old Lord Tarth. Her hair is as silver-gold as her brothers, perhaps slightly paler, and she wears it in a long plait to her narrow waist. Her eyes are much lighter than Jaehaerys’, however, really more lilac than any other shade of purple. She has a mouth inclined to pouting or petulance, much like Argella, and her eyebrows are arched, so she often looks vaguely surprised or bemused. She is less gawky, as well, with a heart-shaped face. Shaera is beautiful, to be sure, a true Targaryen princess, and she is only fourteen. Men already speak of how lucky a man Luthor Tyrell will be, although Argella has seen the two together and can already tell that marriage will be an unhappy one. Shaera likely says the same thing of her and Duncan to Jaehaerys. They are always whispering together, those two, sharing private discussions and private japes. 

The King is arguing with Daeron, who is all of twelve but who seems determined to be knighted by age fifteen, in regards to Daeron not being permitted to participate in anything beyond riding the rings tomorrow. Argella likes Daeron best, of Duncan’s siblings. He is quick-witted and sarcastic and reckless, and said the most foul and funny things when they first had word of Duncan’s… absconding. He is also a third-born son to the core; neither the heir nor the spare but a born warrior, throwing himself into training with a passion and zeal of a man twice his age. Daeron’s hair is platinum blonde, but his face is long and his eyes as dark as his mother’s.

Said mother is down below, debating something with half a dozen Blackwood relatives- for they seem to breed like rabbits, that family- Rhaelle attached to her side, as always. Rhaelle’s dark curls are quite similar to Argella’s, only a few shades lighter, and her eyes are an indigo that looks more blue than anything else, particularly in the summer. She is only ten, Harbert’s age, and round-faced and plump, unlike the rest of her siblings, and more devoted to her mother than any of them, arm in arm with her as though they were old friends, and not mother and child.

The tourney is only expected to last several hours today, and with the weather uncertain everyone wants to make the most of it. There will be three days in total, shorter than the week’s long debacle her father had pushed for, but longer than the modest day the King had at at first argued for, ever mindful of his treasury. Argella hopes they’ve wasted boatloads of money on this, all for the sake of stroking some wounded Baratheon egos. There is a brief archery competition, and then the jousting begins in earnest. Argella watches, and waits, and pops grapes into her mouth until she sees Ormund’s helm emerge. Her elder brother unhorses six men in the span of an hour and a half, until only a scant six or so remain.

Duncan sends his cousin, Mathos Celtigar, toppling off his white stallion, then defeats an Ashford and a Hardyng. Ormund knocks out a Lannister of Lannisport and a Hightower. Then it is just the two of them, Targaryen and Baratheon, brothers by marriage now, and Argella stops drinking her wine. This is her wedding gift from Ormund, after all, and she has been so very eager to see it. They tilt once, twice, thrice. Then again, the crowd holding its breath- few have all the details, but most are to some degree aware of the recent tension between the two houses. On the fifth tilt, she knows before it even happens. Ormund’s lance cracks Duncan’s shield, his horse shies away, and he falls, hard, to the dirt. The stands erupt. 

Argella leaps to her feet, and is not at all humble or shy when she reaches forward to take the offered crown of dragon’s breath, golden cups, and yellow roses from her brother. Ormund tilts up his helm; his face is red and haggard, and he is not smiling but looking to her for approval. It has always been this way, although he is her elder by two years. “Thank you,” she says, voice rich not just with his victory but what feels like some comeuppance, at long last, and he inclines his head as she settles the flower crown atop her mussed curls. 

The black ribbon winds around her neck, while Duncan’s squire helps him to his feet and another fetches his horse. The two knights shake hands. Argella sits back down, and smiles jubilantly at Jaehaerys and Shaera. Shaera averts her eyes as if confronted with a severed head. Jaehaerys gives a barely perceptible smile. “It was well struck on your brother’s part.”

“Wasn’t it?” Argella flips the ribbon over her shoulder. The sun has briefly come out, cheering the crowds up even more. 

Said sun has long since set by the time they are feasting in the queen’s ballroom. Argella eats her fill quickly and then spends most of the night dancing, only once or twice with her husband. She dances with Father, she dances with her brothers, she dances with his brothers, she even dances with men she despises like Mathos and Simon, she dances with towering young Tristan of Tarth, son of Daella, sweet Sam Tully and oblivious Luthor Tyrell and even the littlest of boys- Maegor Targaryen, Mad Aerion’s only son, is a chubby boy of eight, and oft declared the sweetest child at court. She realizes she is trying to prolong the bedding as much as possible, and that is only the natural, as is the twisting in her gut when the first demands for it begin.

Unbidden, her gaze finds Ellyn, seated at her husband’s side. Ellyn looks at her; her mouth twists in pity or anger, and then she looks away, murmuring some excuse to Lord Lyonel and swiftly rising and walking out of the ballroom. Argella then looks to her parents; Father is drunk, but not so drunk to have no mercy for her, he is waving Ormund over even now, while Mother insistently glances the way of the high table, where the king and queen sit, straight-faced and straight-backed, Aegon smiling benevolently and Black Betha looking as though she’d rather be anywhere but surrounded by a thousand mirrors and revelers. She does not want to look for Duncan, for the story his face must tell.

Ormund is rough with the other men; he sends two randy squires sprawling with a single shove, scoops her up into his arms with ease, despite her long limbs and height, and snarls at a chastened Simon Swann, “One fucking hand near her and I’ll cut it off and feed it to you in bits, Swann.” Mathos Celtigar is rather put out, but manages to tear open the back of her gown anyways. Without even looking behind her, Argella neatly plows an elbow into his mouth. He recoils with a shout of pain. 

“I’m bleeding!”

“You sound as though you were the one being bedded down tonight, Matty,” Argella says with a simpering, venomous look directed his way, and the men around her explode with laughter and jeers. The walk to the bedchamber is very short, but then again, Ormund is moving awfully quickly. He kicks open the door, sets her down as she struggles to hold up her gown, her crown of flowers nearly falling from her head, and then says, “You tell your dragon prince that the joust today will look like a lover’s quarrel if he mistreats you tonight. If he won’t get off you, you make a claw,” he demonstrates, “and you grab his balls and squeeze-,”

“Goodnight,” Argella says firmly, pushing him out of the doorway. 

It takes the women substantially longer to get Duncan into the room, since they can hardly just pick him up and carry him, but he arrives within a few minutes all the same, stripped down to just his breeches. Argella has already gotten down to her silken shift when he enters, and is kicking away her dirtied gown as he slams the door shut behind him. He glances at her, reddens, and then moves over to the windows. “Bloody hot in here.”

He’s clearly in a fine mood. She ignores the dread churning in the pit of her stomach. It will be quick, and once you’ve done it the first time, it gets much easier. That is what every woman says. That is what Ellyn told her, although her hand was up Argella’s skirt at the time. She remembers Mother and Septa’s advice. She should hold her tongue, remain demure and sweet, compliment him, pretend at shy pleasure, and bide her time. She gains nothing by provoking an argument on the very first night of marriage. She gains nothing by making an enemy of her husband by berating and scolding him for his indiscretion. She needs to wait. She needs to-

“Won’t you take that out of your hair?” Duncan asks flatly, having gotten the windows open. It’s not raining, but it could; the air wafting into the room is cool and damp. She unconsciously touches the lopsided crown of flowers, meets his reproachful stare, knows he is likely angry with her for goading her brother into humbling him at a tourney her father demanded, for not saying a word to him all evening, for dancing and laughing and drinking instead, for being so obviously smug and gleeful at her success- good luck getting this annulled, she ought to scream- and she knows she should say, “Yes, my lord,” and take the stupid crown off and lay back and go somewhere else in her head, like Mother said. 

“No,” she says instead. “Come now, husband, I thought you liked your women wild, with flowers in their hair? Shall I call for a tub and pretend to be bathing in a river? Then you could be the bold young knight who stumbled upon me, and I’ll run, and you can catch me-,”

“Stop it,” he snaps, as if she were a child throwing a tantrum in public. “Enough. We won't speak of that. Whatever you’ve heard- it’s baseless rumors, nothing more-,”

“So you do not keep a mistress at Summerhall?” Argella pretends at indifference, running her fingers through her curls. “My apologies.”

“Our wedding night,” he says tersely, “is no time to be discussing such things. You are my wife. I am your husband, in the eyes of the Seven. I do not ask that you forgive me, or like me. I only ask that you do your duty, as I have done mine.”

“Can a man count it as having done his duty when he must be practically bludgeoned over the head with it?” Argella asks coldly. “Is it like a cloak, then? You took it off at Oldstones, you slipped it back on when you returned to court-,”

“Argella,” he puts a hand to his face, his voice comes out muffled. “I understand that you are angry. You have every right to be angry. But I will not discuss this with you now.”

“Then when? Before you slip back to Summerhall to comfort her?” She may as well be screaming into the wind. It doesn’t matter. She’s hurting him. She finds she enjoys it. “They say she is barren, but if I do not fall with child within the year, perhaps the High Septon will annul our marriage on grounds of your weak seed. Then you could be with your Jenny, and I could wed Jaehaerys instead-,”

He strides over to her; she leans forward eagerly, anticipating the blow, because if he blackens an eye or splits a lip his mother will throttle him before her father even gets the chance- but instead he rips the flowers from her hair and hurls the crown Ormund gave her at the floor. It lands in a dusty, dark corner. 

He clambers onto the bed, and she lays back; his hand skims her shift, then hesitates. Argella, still staring at the discarded crown, blindly yanks up the fabric for him. “It’s been a very long, difficult day for both of us,” he says, in a much calmer tone, trying to be gentle with her, to reassure her. As if she were quailing before him, the great monster who- gods forgive him- threw some flowers away. He’s not even good at being cruel. “We need to consummate it, but I don’t wish to injure you. We can go as slowly as you like-,”

“Given your recent misadventure, I trust you know what to do with a woman,” Argella says, still not looking at him. “Get on with it. I don’t wish to go anywhere slowly with you, Small Dunk.”

He gets on with it. It takes him a very long time to fall asleep beside her, afterwards. She doesn’t know if he’s wracked with guilt or anger, and frankly doesn’t care. Eventually, his breathing slows, and when he begins to softly snore she rolls over onto her side, as far from him on this bed that she can manage, closes her eyes tightly, puts her hand between her legs, and thinks of how Ellyn feels and smells and tastes. She does not cry, because she is a Baratheon and her eyes are closed and she means to fight to the bitter end. 

The tourney concludes. The wedding festivities end. Her parents and Ormund return to Storm’s End. Ellyn returns to Stokeworth. Duncan spends three bitter months in her company at court, dutifully coming to her bedchamber once a week, and flees for Summerhall at the first opportunity. It does not rain again, and the days are long and hot. Argella spends much of her time in the gardens, lounging by a fountain she and Ellyn used to come to, when they were together at court. She’s an indolent woman; she’s no interest in needlework nor weaving, and she’s not terribly fond of reading either. Sometimes she plays cyvasse with Leona, or teaches Rhaelle how to play the lute, something she is proficient at. 

Other times she goes out riding with Daeron and his closest friend, little Jeremy Norridge, and sometimes her Wylde cousins, Alys and Wynafrei, accompany them, or young Maegor and his jubilantly widowed mother, Daenora. They say Daenora wept with joy when Aerion drank wildfire and died screaming. Argella’s fondest wish as a little girl was to someday be a great widow herself, but she needs Duncan to get an heir on her first, something that is not going to happen with any haste with him so frequently gone. Still, as much as she would like to be a mother, she’s in no particular rush herself. It would infringe on her drinking. 

They are coming back from the Kingswood when they’re alerted to some commotion within the throne room, where court should still be in session for the day. Argella exchanges a bemused look with Daeron, who dashes ahead, Norridge on his heels, and then takes Daenora’s slender arm and follows after, Maegor holding her other hand, at a much more sedate pace. It is late in the day, so the upper gallery is not as packed as it would have been earlier, but there is still audience a-plenty for what is playing out down below.

Aegon sits the throne, looking thunderstruck. Black Betha stands at the foot of the perilous steps, her hands clenched in unladylike fists at her sides. Murmurs and whispers abound. Aegon’s Hand looks as though someone just put an axe through his skull; all dull shock and bulging eyes. Argella almost smiles at the thought, but then she sees the two at the center of this storm; Jaehaerys and Shaera hold hands and a bloody sheet between them.

“Oh no,” Argella says in delight.

“Whoever the septon was, he’d best set sail for Essos,” Daenora muses beside her. “My cousin His Grace might have to call for his first head.”

“You broke your own betrothal to our aunt Daella to wed our mother,” Jaehaerys addresses his father with the stiff manners of a terrified but determined lad of fifteen. “Now I ask that you honor the marriage betwixt Shaera and myself, as your own father did yours.”

“Wait for it,” Daeron mutters, torn between disgust and begrudging impress at their daring. Argella would not have thought mild-mannered Jaehaerys and demure little Shaera capable of it either. He mouths along as Shaera opens her mouth.

“Your Grace, please, I love him!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it up top, this is a six/seven-part fic set during the reign of King Aegon V and his rebellious kids. It will update on Saturdays. I consider is a test drive of a future story also revolving around House Targaryen and House Baratheon that I'd like to write. I have not read any of the Dunk and Egg stories. Feedback is appreciated as always.
> 
> Jenny of Oldstones is referred to as 'Jenny Mudd' several times by people making snide commentary about her claim to noble blood.
> 
> Argella is a lesbian; she has interest in being queen, not in her husband or men in general. If there is a troubled love story in this fic, it's between her and Ellyn Morrigen.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [dwellordream](https://dwellordream.tumblr.com/).


	2. gathering the sunken bones of drowned mothers

It’s a warm, overcast morning when Argella breaks her fast with the queen in the godswood. It is no great secret around court that Betha Blackwood despises her title, and it is no great secret that she despises much of the Red Keep itself as well. As the tale goes, when Black Betha agreed to elope with bold young Aegon, it was under the presumption that they would live out the rest of their days in comfortable anonymity, a fourth son and his wife and their horde of unruly children, traveling here and there and roaming about the Riverlands and more or less living unassuming lives, or however unassuming the life of a Targaryen might be. 

Betha’s dearest wish is that she could have led the life with Aegon that his sisters lead with their own families on Tarth and Claw Isle. Doubtless, Argella thinks, Daella and Rhae both rather wish Aegon had agreed to take one of them to wife, so they might be queen, rather than wed to an old man and a fool, respectively. The queen will get little sympathy from her good sisters there. Then again, Argella thinks as she carelessly sweeps onto the small pavilion, shrugging her way through a curtsy that borders on dismissive, and arranging herself in one of the slightly too small chairs, her good mother has never been someone who sought out pity.

They say Black Betha is the very picture of Black Aly, the archer who wed Cregan Stark when he came south to beat the Targaryens into some semblance of a ruling authority. Betha is tall, thin, verging on reedy, and wears her thick black hair down to her waist. She is not as tall as Argella, nor her own husband, but she is tall enough to cut an imposing figure, furthered by her habit of decking herself out in red and black. Betha is not one for flimsy gowns of pale blue or pink or purple, or lace or silk, or flowers in her hair. Argella agrees with her on that much. 

The rest? Well, they do not call her ‘willful’ in jest. She was a fiercely independent, outspoken, spirited girl of nineteen when she wed Aegon, and now just shy of forty she is stubborn to the bone, willful to the core, possessed of a fiery temper and a penchant for grudges, a whip-like tongue, and a truly piercing glare. Said glare is certainly in full display as Argella heaps her plate with food, although it’s unclear if it’s just her general mood or if Argella’s done something to warrant this dark look. 

Betha may have been infuriated with Duncan when he thought to break off the betrothal and abdicate, but Argella is well aware of how easy it is to forgive one’s eldest son, particularly when he is the sort of man who always has a warm smile and soft word for his mother, as Duncan does. 

Argella is halfway through slathering her toast with raspberry jam when Betha finally deigns to speak. “I understand you have very little sympathy for us, Argella.”

“That’s not true at all,” Argella finishes with the knife, sets it back down, and smiles broadly, in between large bites of her toast, while Betha looks as though she’d like to throw her milk in her face, “I’m overcome with grief. Two marriage alliances broken at once? And Lord and Lady Tully have ever been such dear friends of yours, Mother.”

“I am not your mother,” Betha says plainly, reddening with anger. “Nor do I require reminders of the outrage we will be met with-,”

“You had your chance to be well rid of me when Duncan went head over heels for a whore,” Argella wipes at her mouth. “So you must excuse my familiarity with you now. I’m terribly alone here, you see, after my beloved prince rode off to Summerhall.”

“Duncan is well aware of his duties,” Betha says stiffly. “Indiscretions aside, he will return soon. Were I in your place, I’d be in a fury as well. But my son is a good man. In time, he will tire of this diversion, and you may go on to be happy enough with one another.”

“As you and the King are happy enough with one another,” Argella nods, dismissing the milk with a wrinkle of her nose for some strawberry wine instead. That is a low blow; Betha and Aegon married for love, and it’s obvious that they love one another still, current tensions provoked by their children aside, but Argella was raised to draw blood wherever it was offered, and this family is so thin-skinned that it’s alarmingly easy.

“I called you here to hear your opinions on the matter of Jae and Shaera,” Betha, to her credit, manages to ignore that jab, although the high color in her slim cheekbones remains. “Not to trade barbs about my son and husband. You speak freely enough with Daenora. I would hear it directly now.”

“Nora is a lonely widow with a young son,” Argella sighs, as if it’s all very tragic, which it is, for everyone knows Maekar handed Daenora over to Aerion, who’d been whinging about wanting a pureblooded Targaryen wife for years, when she was sixteen and he thirty four. She could have very well expected to make a fine match outside the family, instead of being wed to her deranged cousin. 

She could have very well expected to be queen, if the Targaryens still followed Andal customs. Her father Rhaegel was the elder brother of Maekar. By rights, it should have gone from Daeron to Aerys to Aelor to Aelora to her. But Rhaenyra put an end to that, over a century ago. Should Argella only have daughters from Duncan, they will try their damnedest to hand over his crown to Jaehaerys upon his death. 

“Daenora is free to leave court for Dragonstone or Summerhall at any time,” retorts Betha. “She stays out of high hopes for Maegor. I do not forget the Great Council.”

Had it been Argella’s infant son who might have stood to inherit, she would have killed the lot of them for the sake of his throne, but Daenora had no allies, no swords, and no dragons. 

“And you had such high hopes for Jaehaerys and Shaera,” Argella picks up a piece of bacon, then rejects it on account of it being undercooked. While she hunts for a crispier piece she says, “Truly, did you never consider that they might fall for one another? You feed all your children tales of Aegon and Rhaenys and Visenya, of Jaehaerys and Alysanne. Their own grandsire thought to wed Daella and your husband.”

“There were a few incidents when they were young,” Betha acknowledges begrudgingly, sawing into the orange set before her, “but their betrothals had been set for years now. Neither ever professed displeasure with them. Jaehaerys was happy enough to visit Celia at Riverrun, and Shaera seemed to enjoy her trips to the Reach-,”

“Doubtless they found them amusing diversions, as you say Duncan finds Jenny Mudd.”

Betha’s knife grinds to a pulpy halt. “Do you intend to drag that up to the surface at every opportunity?” she demands irritably. “We are not discussing Duncan-,”

“We are discussing your children, all of whom you’ve handled like velvet since birth, when they really could have done with a good thrashing here and there,” Argella snaps. “Do you think they expect to be punished for this? A scolding before they’re trotted out to apologise to the Tullys and Tyrells? Jaehaerys and Shaera walked into the throne room with the bloody sheet because they knew they would come out unscathed. And so they have. What have you done with them? Locked them in their rooms until they’re ready to come out and apologize?”

Betha reddens. “It is easy enough to speak of such things when you are not yet a mother or ruler yourself. What would you have Aegon do? Have them whipped in the square?”

“I’d put Jaehaerys over my knee like a child and take a switch to him until he couldn’t sit without weeping, as a start,” Argella says. “No, I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d send him to the Wall and her to the Faith. Bloodraven and Aemon should be glad for the company. He’s ruined her, and neither Tully nor Tyrell will take either of them at this point- it’s a stain on their pride. Let it stand, and your lords will mock you under their breath. They already have little love for you, with these laws your Hand is pushing-,”

“Laws to help the smallfolk,” Betha says fiercely, dark eyes ablaze with passion. “Laws to protect the rights of more than just the landed.”

“You raised rebellious children, and you’ll sow rebellious lords. Tytos Lannister can barely manage the West as it is. The Starks are only appeased because you poured out half the treasury in order to provide for their people this past winter. Now the Tullys and the Tyrells have ample reason to scorn your rule, and no reason at all to support any reforms. See how well these smallfolk love you when their own overlords revile you. Blackfyres yet live across the Narrow Sea. And you have no dragons to keep them from growing bold once more.”

Betha stands, as does Argella, although she finishes what’s left of her wine first. There is a long silence only punctuated by distant morning birdsong. Then Betha exhales. “I thank you for your honesty, if nothing else.” Argella arches an eyebrow at her, and she continues, “Aegon is of a mind to make new arrangements, and let them be. What happened with Duncan was not easy for him to countenance. He wants to be a good king, but he does not want to be at war with his own children. They are his world. Someday, you may see things similarly.”

“Mayhaps,” says Argella, running her tongue along the inside of her cheek. There is a scar there, from where she bit it open when she heard Duncan had gone. “My mother and father love their children no less than you. But had I run away from court with a traveling singer or some hedge knight, they would have hunted us down like dogs, lopped off his handsome head, and sent me to the Silent Sisters. You demand respect from those who owe it to you. Whether they are blood or not should make no difference.”

Aegon pronounces his judgement a scant week after Jaehaerys and Shaera stormed court with their bloody sheet. Argella plays at the distraught good sister, all wide-eyed aghast and clutching her Maiden’s Book in court, but hides a smile of derision behind the holy pages, and watches her scant allies here instead. Fair Daenora strokes Maegor’s silver-gold curls back from his high forehead, where traces of Aerion Brightflame yet lurk. 

Daeron sits shoulder to shoulder with Jeremy Norridge, and whispers in his ear, coaxing out a boy’s shy grins in turn from his companion. Perianne Swann fans herself in dismay, and Leona Dondarrion sips at her lemon water with pursed lips. Cousin Alys and Cousin Wyn stand in the back of the gallery and swipe dried dates from a passing servant’s tray, popping them into their mouths with little regard for the sobriety of this moment.

Jaehaerys and Shaera have dressed as if they expect to be executed, in keeping with the typical Targaryen penchant for overblown melancholia and theatrics, Argella assumes. Shaera comports herself as though she were sweet Naerys herself, veiled in white and clutching her prayer beads. “I suppose the Maiden came to her in a dream and instructed her to let Jae in between her legs with all haste,” Daeron mutters, and Daenora bites back a laugh by disguising it with a cough, while Argella simply turns her face away as if overcome with emotion so she can have a proper fit of snickers. Jaehaerys was not fool enough to wear a sword, thank the gods, and has outfitted himself in black instead, his eyes set deep and shadowed in his face.

Betha prowls the base of the throne like a lion waiting to devour a few stray lambs. Aegon sits rigid on the very edge of the seat, as he always does, as though its very presence pains him. Argella has imagined herself sitting it so many times that she feels as though her skin prickles in pleasure at the thought. Of course, in her dreams there is a babe black of hair and purple of eyes at her breast, and Ellyn comes to her all in gauzy white, and rain pounds against the stained glass window behind them, and Duncan rolls about in the mud with his Jenny outside like a pair of dogs in heat. But it is nice to have something fond to think of in times such as these, all the same.

“When you broke your respective betrothals you broke not only your own word but the King’s word as well,” Aegon says, his tone difficult to read. “Solemn oaths were sworn to House Tully and House Tyrell, oaths you desecrated when you took vows to one another. But you made those vows in the view of the Seven, and you have consummated the marriage, as has been made clear to us all.” Betha is purpling in rage, as if reliving the humiliation of it all over again. 

“You have abused your position and privilege as my children, and as Targaryens, in order to let a marriage of a brother and sister stand. I have a duty to uphold the Faith, a duty to our name, and a duty to our allies. I also have a duty as your father. I broke my own betrothal to wed your mother, you are correct, and I wed for love, not for duty, as you have done. So here it is what will be done now. Lord Tully and Lord Tyrell will both be at court within the month. You will present yourselves to them, beg their forgiveness, and conduct yourselves as befitting your rank.”

“Shaera’s dowry will be deducted from both of your personal allowances every month until it is paid in full. Jaehaerys, you will be moved behind your brother Daeron in the order of inheritance. Should Duncan die without issue, the throne will go to him before you. You will remand yourself to Oldtown following your apology to Lord Tully and Lord Tyrell, where you will study at the Citadel and forge what links you may until I summon you back to court. Shaera, you will serve as a lady in waiting to your good sister Argella. You will be considered part of her household and under her purview until I decide otherwise.”

Argella will admit she was hoping for something of a tantum, but neither Jaehaerys nor Shaera has the nerve for it; they bow and curtsy and stammer their thanks, out of shock or relief, she’s not sure, and then she’s distracted by the exchange of money between Daeron and Jeremy anyways. Jeremy appears to have won a bet. “Second son,” she hails Daeron when they all rise, court dismissed for the day. 

He gives her a wry grin. “I’ll consider it an early name day gift.”

That is not the end of it, of course. Duncan arrives back from Summerhall just in time for the announcement of little Rhaelle’s betrothal to Samwell Tully, and Daeron’s betrothal to the eldest Redwyne girl, Olenna, as all of Luthor Tyrell’s tittering sisters are already wed, and the Redwynes and Tyrells have intermarried so frequently that as this point they might as well be two branches of the same bloody family, for all that Argella cares. Jaehaerys is ushered off to Oldtown, Shaera spends most of her time crying prettily and gazing longingly out the window, and Argella lies restlessly beneath Duncan while he strives to get an heir on her, then composes letters to Ellyn in her head when he murmurs Jenny’s name in his sleep.

She is with child now, Ellyn, and carrying low and heavy, so their maester suspects it may be twins. Twins are supposed to be lucky. Argella hopes they are both sons, two boys, an heir and a spare, all neatly over and done with. Then Ellyn could return to court. Then… Every month, her moon blood comes, and every month she snidely informs Duncan, who has grown very good at carefully composing his expression so it betrays no signs of relief. He doesn’t even want a child with her, she thinks. She doesn’t like him, and he doesn’t like her, and Duncan is just the sort of man who would only want a son or daughter with a woman he truly loved. He may do his duty with her, as is expected of him, but he never pretends to enjoy it, or even prolong it. He asked her once, if kissing might help, in a sympathetic tone, brow creased with concern for her.

“I don’t like to think that I’m causing you pain,” he’d said, bracing his hands on either side of her head as she shifted uncomfortably underneath him. He’d kept tugging on her long hair by mistake. “We could… we could try something else, if this is too much-,”

“How could you cause me pain?” she’d hissed up at him instead, and fought not to let her grimace show when he sighed and went back to work. Duncan is a good man, she’ll yield to that much. Foolish and weak-willed and frightened of his duty, but a good man regardless. He is not the sort to take pleasure in hurting a woman in bed, and he is not the sort who can easily disregard her discomfort either. It’s not in his nature. She rather wishes it were; it’d make it much easier to hate him if he were acting like a beast and forcing her to do things she did not want to do. 

But someone must have given her husband yet another lecture, for after that initial sojourn back to Summerhall, Duncan spends the next five months at court, sitting by her side at feasts and dinners, coming to her bed every few nights, attempting to make conversation with her during the day. His presence is initially grating, then only mildly annoying. Argella is a Baratheon, and so considers bickering an artform second only to violent threats and last stands, but even a Baratheon might from time to time grow tired of endlessly sparring within the confines of their own marriage. 

Duncan has his mother’s temper, but he has also been inundated with Aegon and Ser Duncan the Tall’s chivalry from a young age, and so believes raising his voice to a woman in anger to be some sort of minor and unpleasant sin that should be avoided as much as possible. Generally, when she is trying to get some kind of rise from him, he simply leaves the room, knowing very well she is far too proud a woman to go hurrying after him to continue the fight. He will not speak of Jenny. He will not speak of Oldstones. He will not speak of Summerhall. He often tries to ask after her own home and family instead, so she takes a particular pleasure in informing him that Ormund is now betrothed to Celia Tully.

In the meanwhile, Argella amuses herself by watching Sam Tully, who is all of fifteen, a stocky boy with a head of auburn curls and a freckled face, attempt to forge some sort of friendship with his betrothed, the princess Rhaelle, who is above him in title yet five years younger than him in age. Fortunately (or unfortunately) for him, Rhaelle has not a shy or timid bone in her body, and is an incredibly talkative and energetic little girl, who has thus far borne the news of her eventual marriage to the lad with an impressive amount of grace. 

Argella would wager poor wide-eyed Sam is the more lost of the two; Rhaelle seems to spend most of her time dragging him around by the hand, showing him her two favorite ponies in the stables, all of her drawings of the great Targaryen dragons, her collection of porcelain dolls with real hair on their carved heads, and demanding he teach her how to steer a skiff down the river. If Samwell Tully is disgruntled with the fact that his betrothed still has a few baby teeth to lose and is more interested in playing hide and seek all over the Red Keep than she is in watching him participate in tourneys or hearing admirable tales of his squirely heroics, he does not show it. But then again, the Tullys have always been fairly amenable, for river lords. 

Not a day goes by when she does not hear the distant sound of Rhaelle chattering away about this and that, barely pausing for breath, while Sam dutifully trails behind her, occasionally supplying an, “I didn’t know that, Princess.” or a “Shouldn’t we ask Her Grace the Queen first, my lady?” If they keep it up at this rate, Argella thinks, by the time they are wed Samwell will have said all of perhaps five hundred words, and Rhaelle will have exhausted every possible topic of conversation under the sun. 

Daeron and Olenna are a different matter. As far as princes go, Argella has always considered Daeron the best of the three, although perhaps that is just because comparatively less is expected of him, as a thirdborn son (even one who has recently surpassed his elder brother in the line of inheritance). Daeron is quicker to smile than Jaehaerys and quicker to laugh than Duncan. He is headstrong and impulsive like the rest of them, but he is more approachable than his elder brothers, more personable, with a slightly spoilt smirk and a complete aversion to the sort of brooding and dwelling that Duncan and Jaehaerys are prone to. Daeron isn’t happy unless he’s doing something; he’s always on the move, with little patience for books or numbers or history. 

It is not that Daeron hates Olenna instantly, or her him, it is more that such a mismatched pair could never be found anywhere else in the world. They are the same age and at first glance of similar temperaments; Olenna is the sort of girl of twelve who never hesitates to pointedly (and loudly) voice her opinion, who is very much used to getting her way, and who despises nothing more than being ‘bored’. But it is still rather like watching two rams immediately locks their horns together while they struggle for dominance, and then get stuck in that position. If they thought Argella was defiant and insolent and vindictive, well, she is nothing compared to the Redwyne girl!

Olenna is a pretty little thing, all light brown curls and hazel eyes flecked with green, at least until she opens her mouth. Then anyone and everything is a target. Upon her arrival to court, she’d cast a dismissive glance around the throne room, in all its austere crimson and black Targaryen glory, and questioned whether they’d bothered to change the decorations since the brief reign of Maegor. She is truly the sort of girl who could have a knife to her throat, and who instead of crying or screaming, would roll her eyes and demand to know when assassins became so low-brow and obvious. 

“My lady of thorns,” Daeron dubbed her drolly not three weeks after her arrival, and without missing a beat Olenna had, without looking up from her very precise needlework, snapped, “That’s Queen of Thorns to you, Prince of Lizards. Now go make yourself useful and ask them to bring out more sun-shades. I can barely see my stitches in this light.”

Naturally, Argella quickly becomes quite attached to her, in no small part because Olenna, upon their first dinner together; her, Duncan, Shaera, and a few others, had in between picking at her goose and wrinkling her pert little nose, cast a disparaging glance Duncan’s way and said, “I promised everyone back at Arbor that I’d write them all about your Jenny, but now I hear you locked her up in some summer manse in the mountains east of Cockleswent.”

“She’s of a very delicate disposition,” Argella had said drolly, while Duncan struggled to swallow the rest of his food instead of choking on it, “I assure you, Olenna, I was quite put out as well.”

“She is being perfectly horrid,” Shaera had hissed to Argella while their last course was being cleared away. “And you should rebuke her! She is speaking to the future king!”

“And you are speaking to the future queen, who has half a mind to see you shipped off to Dragonstone to prepare my household there, and give your sewing room overlooking the waterfront to her,” Argella had whispered back, still smiling. 

So court is not terrible. In fact, Argella grows to become almost fond of it. She may not be overly fond of the city itself, not when compared to Bronzegate, which is leagues cleaner and safer by far, and it still rains far less often than she would like, and she misses the sea, but the Red Keep is no cloying prison for her. She enjoys the freedom to roam where she pleases, she enjoys having ladies in waiting to serve her every whim, even when it can be tiring to manage all their moods and egos, and she enjoys watching Harbert grow taller and stronger under Ser Duncan’s tutelage. 

The new year has come and gone and she is eight months wed when there is word from Stokeworth. Ellyn is far more eloquent in writing than Argella, and usually her letters are full of flowery turns of phrase and elaborate descriptions of amusing incidents or irritating people. All of their correspondence is naturally read by maester and occasionally husbands, as Argella has regrettably has yet to find a maester who would hesitate to give a man his wife’s correspondence, while on the other hand plenty of them would outright refuse to let a woman read her husband’s without his express approval. Ellyn hides all sorts of sweet tidbits in between her long-winded paragraphs, little compliments and private japes between the two of them.

This letter is different. 

_Gella_, it reads

_Lost twins at 7 moons. Lyonel broken by it. Will not so much as look at me. Must beg your leave to return to court as soon as permissible. Please. _

__

__

_Yours Faithfully, Ellyn_

Argella grants it. 

Ellyn lost her twins in a bed of blood and ruin, and spent another month abed recovering from it. Her husband’s maester has forbid her from any rigorous exercise or marital relations for the next six months as a precaution; she is not as hearty as most young women, and he believes another pregnancy so soon could pose a risk to her health. Lyonel has turned to more drink and whores than usual in an effort to destroy his own health, and any memory of the loss. 

“Boys,” Ellyn tells her. “Two sons, like we’d hoped for. They were-”; she struggles to even move her lips to form the next words, as Argella holds her hand against her chest, as they used to do when confessing terrible things to one another as girls. “They were very small. Like little dolls. Or sea creatures you’d find in a… a mermaid’s shell. I could have held one in my hand.”

They are sitting next to their fountain; the gardens are stiff and still with summer heat, and the Citadel claims this season will last at least another year. Now Argella wants nothing more than to see the warmth and vibrant green and red sliced through with wintry white and grey. She wants the burbling fountain to freeze over and crack into jagged pieces. She wants their breath to mist betwixt them, and cover up all that must remain unsaid. Anyone could walk by at any moment. There are guards half a hedgerow away. She cannot hold her as she ought to. She cannot comfort her as she needs to. 

“It was not your fault,” she says instead, a poor balm indeed. “These things happen. The gods are cruel.”

“He said as much,” says Ellyn, “and then would not speak to me again. It may not be my fault, but he blames me all the same. His brother told him he ought to have married stronger stock. His mother says I rode too frequently, before I… before I knew. That it killed them in me.” Her voice dies into a low whine of dismay. “I didn’t,” she says, tearing up like a child caught in the middle of some mischief, “I didn’t mean to, I wanted them-,”

“You didn’t,” Argella wraps her arms around her, shushes against her raven’s wings of hair. “You didn’t, you didn’t, believe me. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I wanted them,” Ellyn sobs, her nails clawing at the flowing sleeves of Argella’s deep green gown. “I did, truly-,”

“You are only seven-and-ten. There will be other babes. Both of us will have as many children as we please,” Argella murmurs into her hair. “I promise.”

She is half right; within the next month, her moon’s blood, always so regular, does not come, and her breasts are very sore. It is too early to confirm anything, but she walks around veiled in smug pride all the same, and is almost pleasant to Duncan when he returns from his second visit to Jenny at Summerhall, this time for just a month. Her newfound amiable nature clearly baffles him, but he is not stupid enough to raise any questions over it, and Argella limits herself to just two cups of wine a day and thinks up names while lying under the canopy of her great big bed with Ellyn, too tired from the heat to do much else but whisper and occasionally kiss.

Argella is sure Shaera would like nothing more than to catch her out with Ellyn, and as much as she likes little Olenna, she does not trust her a single whit, either. So she and Ellyn are always careful, so careful, but the heat makes people lazy, and lazy people do silly things like forget to check the adjoining suite before they fall into each other’s arms, and Argella has straddled Ellyn and is pressing kisses up the faint line of dark hair that streaks past her belly button, eliciting fits of muffled laughter and teasing complaints, when Duncan comes striding into the room, calling out for her, and stops still in his tracks. 

There is no hiding it; they are both half-dressed, and framed by the setting sun through the great set of glass doors leading out onto the balcony. Ellyn sucks in a rattling breath beneath her, and goes stiff and still as a corpse. Argella freezes where she is, a thousand excuses and threats on the tip of her tongue, peeking out between her swollen lips, but when it comes down to it, there is very little space to maneuver here. She can viciously mock Duncan and his own very public affair as much as she pleases, and it is tolerated as a wife’s waspish nature, an annoyance and not much more. 

Yet had he walked in on her and another man, and then to find her with child- it would be her head on the chopping block, and she knows she would see none of Aegon’s famous mercy then, when it came to the possibility of his heir being cuckolded. Ellyn is no man, so she does not need to fear for her life. But Duncan is still the crown prince, and she’s given him very little reason to want to do her any favors by keeping a ‘special companion’ here at court. So it’s not fear, no more than it was fear on her wedding night. Just the same old familiar dread.

She lets go of Ellyn’s wrists, which she’d been playfully clutching tight with one hand; her fingerprints have left white marks on Ellyn’s sun-kissed skin, and shifts off her in one slow, cautious movement. Ellyn scrambles up in bed, pulls down her flimsy shift, and pulls the sheets up to her chest; Argella may not be frightened, but she is, from her dilated eyes to the flagrant spots of color in her cheeks to her trembling hands, and although Duncan has not even said a word, Argella thinks she could run him through with a pike where he stands right now for even inciting such a reaction in Ellyn.

She locks her arms around her chest, and slowly stands up, shoulders hunched. “My lord.” She has not referred to him as such since before they were wed, but if there were ever a time to play at that old deference, now would be it. “We had a bit too much to drink. It was just… just a bit of fancy, we meant nothing by it. A girl’s game.”

“I’ll let you dress, and then if you would speak with me privately in my quarters,” Duncan says stiffly, turns on his heel, and goes, shutting the door very hard behind him.

“Gella,” Ellyn says hoarsely. “He saw-,”

“He saw, but that doesn’t mean he has to remember,” Argella is all brisk business now, snatching up her finest satin robe. “You dress and go back to your rooms. I’ll be with you shortly, once I’ve settled this with him. It will be fine.”

“He’ll send me back to Stokeworth,” Ellyn cannot meet her eyes. “We should not have- it was bound to happen eventually…”

“It was nothing,” Argella says flippantly, cruelly, because she must, she must be prepared, she thinks, to have to end this badly, if the worst comes to pass, and Ellyn is right, and he does send her from court, or take Argella to Dragonstone with him, because she will end it then, if she cannot have Ellyn again, she will have to end it, because she is a Baratheon, and they do not long prettily like Shaera, they take what they want and when they cannot have anymore, they end it. “Didn’t you hear me tell him? It was just a bit of fun.”

Ellyn’s expressions fold into something cold and distant. “Of course.”

Argella wants to go to her, to kiss her just in case it is the last time, but she cannot. She goes.

Duncan sits on his bed in his personal chambers; usually when they lie together he comes to hers, so she has only been inside a few times. It is sparsely decorated and a bit cluttered all the same, which she should have expected of him. She closes the door behind her. “Shall I show you what Ellyn was teaching me?” They’ve never kissed before, save on their wedding day, but if this is price she must pay to keep Ellyn with her, she will gladly pay it. She can pretend at eagerness, pretend at lust for his wiry frame and taut chest and stomach. She can do whatever it is Jenny does with him, if that is what he wants to reassure himself that his wife does not prefer one of her own married ladies to him. 

“No,” he says flatly, and that is worse, for if he’s gone and taken it so personally, there’s little to be done. His face is a freshly washed slate; long and blank. 

“Don’t do this,” she says in frustration, before she can stop herself.

“Do what?” he demands, his long fingers digging into the bedspread around him. “Go looking for my wife and find her-,” he shakes his head, he can't go on.

“Please,” says Argella through her teeth. This is the first and last time. “Don’t. You’ve no love for me, but she is a good, gentle-hearted woman who’s suffered more than her due. Don’t make her go back there out of anger towards me. If you wish us to go to Dragonstone, or to take a progress together, so you might stop over at Summerhall again, I’ll raise no complaints. But don’t send her back to Stokeworth. Duncan. I’ll not beg you. But-,”

“How long?” his voice sounds somewhat distant to her; his eyes are dark and unreadable in the dim evening light.

Argella hesitates.

“Before we wed? Or after? If it is because of my actions-,”

She cannot hold back after that. “No,” she says in such obvious disgust and anger that is his turn to stop speaking at once, “no, I- you did not- it’s not because of you. It was never because of... of anyone or anything but the two of us.” 

“I didn’t think it was,” he says more calmly than he looks. “But I just thought I’d ask. I think you should go to Dragonstone.” Seeing her mouth open wordlessly, he adds, “with her and your other ladies. It’s past time we established a household there. It’s dreary and damp and the weather’s terrible, I’ll give you that, but you were raised at Storm’s End. I think you’ll rise to the challenge.”

“Without… without you?” For the first time in nearly ten months of marriage, he has surprised her. 

“Yes,” he says. “For the time being. I would come eventually, of course. But it’s more… secluded there. The servants are very discreet. Similar to Summerhall, in that sense. You’d have fair warning whenever I came to visit. I’d not impose myself on you. And you could be…” he exhales. “Happy. Or happier than you’ve ever been here, at least.”

“I don’t hate it here,” she takes a step towards him, still in shock. 

“Neither do I,” he shrugs. “I don’t love it, either. I never have. I was twelve when they made Father King. I’d spent most of my life in the Riverlands before that. Not cooped up at court. It was the worst day of my life. And his, I sometimes think. I didn’t choose this life. Neither did you. And it’s not fair. And it’s not right. So if I can grant you some happiness in it, I think I’m duty bound to, as your lord husband.”

“Why?” she frowns. “I’ve been a hateful bitch to you, more often than not.”

He actually laughs at that. “And I’ve deserved it, more often than not. Let’s call it even for now, shall we? When we… when we do have children together, I’d rather they grow up well away from here. And with a mother and father who aren’t constantly at one another’s throats, even if they don’t love each other.”

He stands up, extends his hand as he did after Ormund sent him sprawling to the dusty ground at that tourney on their wedding day. “Are we in agreement, my lady?”

Argella looks at his hand, then takes it in her own, sucks in a breath, and puts it to her belly. His eyes widen, but he is the eldest of five children. He understands quickly enough. “We are,” she says, quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon states that Olenna and Daeron were actually betrothed at age nine, several years before any Tully or Tyrell betrothal breaking, but I didn't realize that until 3/4ths of the way through this chapter, so let's call it a canon divergence. We have plenty of those as it is. 
> 
> I maintain that since Olenna states in canon that she did everything she could to get out of marrying Daeron, her being a snarky little shit to royalty is perfectly reasonable.
> 
> Samwell Tully is named after a muppet. You're welcome.
> 
> Argella and Tywin, were Tywin older and at court much earlier, would probably be pretty fast friends. That's not a compliment to Argella or Tywin. 
> 
> This is my stress-relief fic, I don't take it too seriously, I hope it's enjoyable to read. Targaryen dysfunction is too fun not to write, I'm sorry to all the hardcore Egg fans out there.


	3. while the white mist washes around my legs like water

Dragonstone is damp and dreary, it’s true. Even on a sunny summer’s day, the island is shrouded in clouds of mist and fog and reeking of sulfur. Argella watches the shadow of the great volcano at its peak pass over the bow of the ship, and smiles against the cold spray of the water that comes rushing up. The rest of the passengers are far less enthused; Ellyn is bundled in her thickest wool cloak, despite the season, and Shaera looks abjectly miserable, gone grey with seasickness. Daenora is busy wrangling Maegor, who has been slipping and sliding around the deck like a bilge rat all morning, since the cry of land went up.

Of all of them, aside from a few of the servants and of course, the crew of the ship, only Daenora and Shaera have visited the island before, and Shaera doesn’t remember her visit, having been a toddling girl of two or three at the time. Daenora does, however, and when Argella presses her for information about the fortress and the surrounding villages (there are just six), simply says that Aerion insisted they stay over for several months following their wedding. “I expect I shall see a few of his bastards roaming about, when we come again,” was all Argella had gotten out of her.

She is five months gone with child by the time they reach Dragonstone; only showing when out of her elaborate gowns, but Duncan asked his father’s permission to announce it to the court two moons past, and the island’s smallfolk cheer for her and her unborn babe when they are escorted off the ship, the news having traveled far and wide by now. Her mother has written her, worried that Dragonstone’s admittedly harsh climate will cast a pallor over the pregnancy and bring the babe about too early or too late, but Argella is not concerned. She is a Baratheon, after all, and the women of her family seldom have trouble in the birthing bed.

Besides, her children will be strong, and thus must be born into a strong place. Dragonstone may not be very pleasant, or picturesque, but it is strong, no one would dare deny that. The birthplace of the Targaryen dynasty, home to hundreds of dragon lords and their dragon seeds. There were hatcheries here, once, and rumors abound at court that there are still hidden caches of dragon eggs tucked away in some darkest part of the fortress’ dungeons, or deep inside some molten caves. 

It is a short ride to the castle itself; albeit it a grueling, uphill one. The wheelhouse plods along tremulously, while Argella impatiently drums her fingers on the velvet cushioned seats. She has never been exceedingly fond of horses, but she will not deny that she was rather tempted to have a mount saddled and race up to the gates herself. But she has half a hundred maester’s warnings against getting into the saddle with a babe in her belly ringing in her ears, so instead she sits and lolls her head against the window, looking at Ellyn, who smiles faintly back at her.

In truth, she is in Duncan’s debt now, although she would rather walk over hot coals than admit it. Had it not been for his offer for them to go to Dragonstone, she is not sure she would have been able to smooth things over with Ellyn, even with the promise that they could go on as they had been. Her husband, fool that he may be, does have the occasional pearl of wisdom. Dragonstone is isolated and lonely and above all, private and discreet. It lacks the liveliness and sophistication of court, but it also grants her the freedom to do much or less what she pleases, when she pleases. “Three hundred men-at-arms,” Argella says, watching the massive Stone Drum come into view, all black sheen in the pale grey light. “And House Velaryon and House Celtigar at my command. Just imagine what poor Mathos Celtigar must think, the white-haired bastard.”

“Sworn to the prince,” Ellyn corrects in exasperation. “They may visit to pay their proper courtesies, but they will expect your husband-,”

“Bah,” Argella waves her off, wrinkling her nose. “Duncan will come eventually. He is taking another progress of the Reach, to visit Jae in Oldtown. And Jenny Mudd with him, although he did not tell me as much.”

Ellyn’s brow creases in concern. “But he will return in time for the birth?”

Argella shrugs. “I told him he could take as long as he pleased. It matters not to me- what place would he have during it? This is women’s work.” Seeing as it is just the two of them in the carriage, she leans over and takes Ellyn’s soft hand in her own. “I can think of no one better to accomplish it with.” She was almost nervous to tell Ellyn of the pregnancy, at first, but perhaps it worked out all for the best, for upon seeing her uncharacteristically hesitant to confess it, Ellyn had sprung up from her seat and embraced her soundly, tears in her eyes. 

“It will go well for you, I’m sure of it,” she’d said ferociously, as if willing to take up arms in defense of the unborn babe if need be, and Argella had rather believed her.

The pregnancy has been quite easy thus far; she’s had barely any sickness or aches and pains, and everyone agrees it has done wonders for her hair and complexion. Why, her ankles and feet don’t even seem that swollen, and she rather enjoys examining her bump in the looking glass, cradling it with her splayed hands and trying to imagine what the babe will look like. Big, to be sure, a fat little beast of an infant, like her and all her siblings. Duncan will dote on it, to be sure, whether he is present for the birth or not. He is just the sort to hold an infant with ease, not distaste or obvious discomfort the way many men would. 

Their induction to the household is done via prayer in the septa. Argella kneels before the towering statue of the Mother, which was once the mast of a ship that carried the Targaryens from Valyria, and stares up at her brilliant amethyst eyes with something approaching wonder. It is easy enough to mock the Targaryens and their obsession with reawakening the dragons while at the ostentatious court of the Red Keep. Here, in the very heart of Dragonstone, surrounded by artefacts from Old Valyria, in a castle they say was forged by sorcery and black magic, it feels different. Powerful. She can’t decide if she enjoys the apprehension or not. 

The Mother looks different all across Westeros; here they say she was modeled after the likeness of one of Aenar’s wives; he had at least four. Argella wonders how they chose which one’s features to use. But perhaps they all looked much the same. She tries to picture Duncan with four wives, and it nearly makes her laugh aloud in the sept, something she would almost certainly be smote for. The poor man can barely handle a wife and a mistress, nevermind four women all vying for his attention or at each other’s throats. If distance is said to promote fondness between bickering husbands and wives, she supposes this is as far as it gets without one of them setting sail across the Narrow Sea. 

But truly, she hasn’t much time to think about Duncan or his Jenny or anything other than attempting to organize the household, get all the rooms properly furnished, the kitchens cleaned and the stores organized, and doing the mandatory visits to each ramshackle little village, praising their prized sheep or pretty daughters or new mill. Dragonstone’s ancient keep is minuscule compared to the Red Keep, and still small compared to Storm’s End, but the Stone Drum itself reminds her vaguely enough of home, from the wind whistling around the eaves to the distant sounds of waves crashing against the cliffs. 

The first time she enters the Great Hall, she just stands and looks at the carved black throne in the shape of- what else?- a dragon coiled around the seat, its claws gripping the armrests, its tail curled onto the stone floor. Some of the original richly woven tapestries depicting the Fall of Valyria are still hanging, and the stained glass windows show the original line of the Targaryens. Daenys stares dreamily and geometrically out onto the horizon in one, sunlight caught on her hair, flames burning in her purple eyes. When Argella presses a finger to her glassy cheek, it comes back coated with a thick layer of dust and grime. 

Ellyn is quite interested in the Chamber of the Painted Table, poring over the map of Westeros with Shaera, who is damnably as intrigued by history as her, but Argella feels strange in that room. She mislikes it. Perhaps it is her Baratheon blood. Orys stood here, with Aegon and his sisters, and listened to them plan their grand invasion, and did as he was told, and did it ever gnaw at him, she wonders, that the trueborn rode their dragons to war, while he, the bastard, had to make do on horseback? Did it chafe at him that he could never be acknowledged as one of them, that he was just a dragonseed, useful for making war and killing stubborn old men and wedding their defiant daughters, but certainly never worthy of his own throne or a dragon to mount? 

She prefers Aegon’s Garden, which was predictably named for the Conqueror, although they say it was Rhaenys who loved it best, who coaxed the flowering plants and shrubbery to grow amidst the ashen soil. She likes the roses there; they smell differently from any others, and she likes the wind-tossed, gnarled and stunted trees, and she likes to watch the clouds ripple across the sky and hear the distant screech of seagulls. She spends most of her afternoons and evenings there; Dragonstone is certainly much cooler than the capitol, but it is still summer, and the sun takes a long while to set each night. 

Sometimes she has a singer come to play for them, but often she just sits and goes over the account books or list of stores or writes letters while listening to Ellyn read aloud from some old tome. Dragonstone’s library is cold and dark but apparently very expansive, for Ellyn has declared it would take decades to finish all the books and scrolls within it. Argella hopes that means she intends to stay for decades. Ellyn may think her smugly confident, but it is not as if- it’s not that she never worries. It just seems useless to waste her time with such quibbles. 

And she does so want Ellyn to stay, to always stay. She misses court, in a way, but here they can wake up in the same bed and share kisses in the corridors and go on very long walks through the garden without anyone looking for them or asking irritating questions. Ellyn’s husband writes, but not very often, and he has not made any demands that she return yet.

Ellyn is reading to her in her lavishly outfitted bedchamber, her voice a pleasant, soft drone, when Argella’s water breaks, and she bounds up and out of her seat in alarm, while Argella simply holds her skirts up and laughs, although it turns into a grimace from the crushing pain in her lower back before long. Childbirth itself is not terribly arduous for her; they say firstborn children are often slow, reluctant to emerge, but this babe sets a brisk pace, for the midwife can see the head by the time the maester has entered the room, and the child slips out into the world in another gush of fluid with what feels like barely any effort from Argella.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Ellyn is saying hoarsely, as the babe shrieks, sitting behind Argella, and shaking with the exertion it takes to support her frame, for Argella is at least four inches taller than her and at least two stone heavier. “Thank the gods,” she presses a kiss to Argella’s cheek, flushed red and damp with sweat, “are you alright? Look, they’ve got him, he’s a big babe- don’t look down there, there’s blood-,”

“I don’t feel it at all,” Argella feels as if she’d just run a race; exhausted and panting but thrilled and somewhat surprised she made it to the end. She swipes a hand down between her legs, only for it to be wrenched away by the midwife who is trying to coax out the afterbirth. “I feel wonderful.”

“You tore, but it’s nothing we can’t stitch,” she’s informed dourly.

“I don’t feel it,” Argella laughs, and then laughs again when she sees the babe, tightly swaddled now, a head of matted black curls peeking out from the blankets. “Oh, look at you, then! I knew it.”

“A very healthy princess,” says the maester, handing over the babe, and Argella blinks- she’d prayed for a son, but had never been so distraught at the thought of a girl, for of course she wants daughters as well. A boy would be better, but it is not as if this were all so horrible, was it? In fact, she’s certain she could do it again, likely even quicker. She has all she needs. Her and the babe and Ellyn-

There’s a brief commotion from outside, and then the door is wrenched open; her mother is arguing fiercely with Duncan, who was due back six days past but delayed by, what else, storms. “My lord,” Florys Wylde is pink with outrage as she skirts out of his path, fists balled at her sides, and Argella thinks she got that from Father, he has that sort of effect on people, even his own wife, “you cannot- she’s not fit to be seen- Duncan!” she hisses in alarm after him as he barges into the room, looking around wildly as if expecting to see the aftermath of some great battle.

Ellyn stiffens from her position behind Argella, and Argella stares at him for a moment, frozen in the process of trying to get the squalling infant to latch to her breast, then huffs. “Come and see my girl, then.” 

Duncan’s lips move, no sound emerges, but then he is at the bedside in a flash, crouching down and pressing two fingers to the babe’s head. Ellyn clambers out from behind Argella, pushing pillow out of the way, and murmurs something about informing the others of the successful birth. Argella glances after her, wanting to call her back, demand that she stay, but then Duncan is seated beside her on the bed, and the afterbirth has just slid out with one hard strain from her, and he’s stroking the babe’s pink cheek and perfect little nose, and she forgets what happens after that, only that he is smiling in wonder and she is smiling in delirium, at least until they give her some milk of poppy. 

After two days and three separate fierce arguments, they name her Rhaenys. Duncan made a serious argument for Betha, to her disbelief- who ever heard of a Targaryen named Betha?- while his response was ‘who ever heard of a Targaryen named Duncan?’ and then glowered at her when she started laughing derisively at him. She wanted something strong, like Alysanne, or Daena, or even Alyssa. But the last Rhaenys had a Baratheon mother as well, so perhaps this is fitting. 

Argella loves her immediately, although the swell of emotion is so intense that it not identifiable as such right away. Mostly she cries, more than she ever has in her entire life, and feels as though she is constantly wiping at her nose and eyes and gazing down at Rhaenys in astonishment. She wakes up and looks at her constantly, worried she might suddenly forget her face, her miniature features, the noises she makes in her sleep. Duncan loves her as well; she was never concerned he’d be disappointed by a daughter, more so determined to spitefully love her all the more if he were vocally displeased, but that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? No, Duncan is always fussing over wanting to hold her and sing to her and walk around with her.

Argella makes a few snide japes about how he’d likely love to nurse her as well, had he the breasts, and he was so intent on coaxing a smile from their babe that he did not even seem to hear her. She had expected he would be happy enough with a healthy child, shower some brief affection on the babe, out of love, and perhaps on her, out of guilt or duty, and then catch the fastest ship back to the mainland to be with Jenny once more. But he stays, and while part of her unequivocally wants him gone, the other part… well, it is not always so miserable, having someone around who loves their daughter as much as her, who never complains or dismisses or goes out hunting (not that there is much hunting to be done on this wretched island).

Her mother is baffled by it, and tells her as much. “It’s unnatural,” Florys says, teeth worrying at her thin lips once more, “for a man to be so caught up with his child. She can’t even crawl yet, never-mind speak. I don’t think your father held you more than once or twice before you were able to smile and laugh at him.” 

This is not some underhanded jab at Father; Mother is genuinely confused. Why should a man be so interested? Women do not take to the battlefield, as a rule, nor follow their men out to watch the judgments and executions. For a man to want to be present for all the mundane aspects of infancy, the changings and the feedings and the crying, is absurd to her.

It’s absurd to Argella as well, but what is she going to do? Order him away from his daughter? Rip her out of his arms? 

“It’s his first child,” she says dismissively instead. “Something new and exciting. He’ll tire of it soon enough. He’s been here six weeks already. He never stays much longer than two moons.”

“You must keep careful track, when your moon’s blood returns,” Mother is braiding her hair for, small hands deft and neat as she goes, one looping strand over the other. “If he is insistent on keeping up this nonsense of running back and forth from his mistress to his wife, it will be up to you to make sure he is here when you can conceive again.”

“Mother, I’m not even eighteen for three more moons,” Argella scoffs. “It’s hardly a question of me going barren anytime soon.”

“You don’t know what the future may hold,” Mother scolds sharply. “It is your duty to give House Targaryen a son. Even more so due to their laws of inheritance. Women cannot inherit the Throne. Your daughter will grow into a beautiful maid, I am sure, and she will be the pride of us all, but she will never rule. And you should begin considering who she will wed into soon. Offers will arrive quickly. Do not let Duncan handle such matters alone. He would promise his daughter to a friend’s son on a lark, even if that friend were a hedge knight,” she sniffs. 

“Knowing Duncan, she’ll be an old maid of five-and-twenty, and he will still not see her married,” Argella rolls her eyes. “He is just that sort.”

Mother’s nails scrape at her scalp, and Argella winces, more out of annoyance than pain. “He could still get a bastard on Jenny Mudd. A natural son. You do not want that. Not for you, not for my granddaughter. And what sort of life is this for you, secluded here with some ladies as though this were a motherhouse? The people will want to see you and Duncan together. Like Jaehaerys and Alysanne. It is crucial-,”

“I am perfectly happy here without him,” Argella snaps, yanking away her from, a hand to her head. “Really, Mother. I find my life quite fulfilling without having to tramp through every hovel in Westeros, pretending to enjoy myself while he drinks ale with the farmers and dances with their hulking daughters. I have a household here, and I run it just how I please, and they report to me, not to him, and I have Daenora, and Ellyn, and even his little sister-,”

“It is past time Ellyn returned to her own household,” Mother lowers her voice, although Argella doesn’t know why she bothers; they are completely alone in her suite, and the servants know better than to lurk behind closed doors, eavesdropping. She’s made that quite clear. “Lord Stokeworth was at court not four moons past, I’ve heard, and I hope you do not intend to make the man come here and beg her home again, as if he were some blacksmith with a runaway bride.”

Argella stiffens. “Ellyn is no concern of yours. If I want her here-,”

“How can she be happy here?” Mother’s face softens slightly, she lays a warm hand on Argella’s shoulder. “I know you two have always been so close. So… so sweet with one another, and I am grateful to her. Gods know you needed the temperance when you were young, you were such a willful thing, but you are not little girls anymore. Your lives have changed. You are a married mother now, and soon you will have other children, and more responsibilities. You cannot keep her from her own duties.”

“To what? To die in the birthing bed trying to give her oaf of a husband a son?” Argella snaps. “She is still a lady in my service, accorded an allowance and wardrobe and lodging from my household, and if I wish her to stay here, then she will stay here!”

Mother closes her eyes briefly, as if to give herself patience. “You should not come between a husband and wife. You do not want people to speculate- to have your little favorites is one thing, but they should be unmarried women. Young ladies. Girls.”

“Come between-,”

“Think on what I’ve said.” And Mother kisses her brow tenderly and then she is gone, and Argella sits and broods and turns the comb over in her palm, before hurling it at the wall. 

But it is as if she spoke it into truth. The weeks stretch on. Duncan does not leave Dragonstone, takes all his meals with them, brightens every time he sees his daughter's face, and sometimes Argella cannot help but smile back at him. Rhaenys is four months old when Ellyn comes to her. She has always been better at disguising her emotions than Argella, being a calmer, more rational sort, but they are on full display here. She picks at the skin around her nails, sits on the very edge of the oak-paneled window seat overlooking the mountains. “I need to go back,” she says, while Argella leans physically away from her as if in dreaded recoil. “I need to go back to Stokeworth. Lyonel’s been patient enough. It’s been over a year, now. It’s time.”

“No,” says Argella, gripping her hands in her own. “No, you don’t- I know you don’t mean this. You think you must, but you needn’t. There’s nothing there for you but misery.”

“I must,” says Ellyn. “I must and I will. I am his wife, Gella. He… we have never been close, we will never be close, but things could be much worse. I overlooked the whores, and he has overlooked this. Gods know what his family must think of me.”

“Others take his family,” Argella snarls. “I don’t give a damn what they think of you, nor should you. You are far above them. Stokeworth- Stokeworth is a bloody shack in a field, compared to Crow’s Nest, to Storm’s End, to Dragonstone! They are utterly unworthy of you. He is unworthy of you. His brother can inherit.”

“He can, but he should not,” Ellyn pulls her hands away, eyes shadowed in the dusken light coming through the windowpanes. “I’m still young. You said it yourself, we both will have children. I want children. I made vows to him, before the gods-,”

“Vows- people make vows all the time, they never intend to keep them,” Argella says incredulously. “Don’t bring the gods into this, Ellyn. The gods know what love is, believe me, and they knew you had no love for him when you said those words.”

Ellyn flushes, not prettily but angrily, ugly splotches across her chest and neck. “Then perhaps I should have tried harder to learn to love him.”

“No one learns to love someone, they only learn to tolerate,” Argella retorts. “And you need not subject yourself to that. You belong here, with me. As we have been. Nothing’s changed!”

“How can you say that?” Ellyn demands hoarsely, standing up in frustration, casting a hand around the room. “Everything’s changed, Argella. You have a husband. You have a child. You have a life here, a life at court, and I am- I cannot be some… accessory to it all! I want-,” she opens her mouth, shuts it, opens it again, and says in a pained voice. “You think I don’t want this? I love Rhaenys like my own, but she is not mine. She is yours. Yours and Duncan’s, and you should thank the Seven every day for the man you have in him, because he is-,”

“Don’t you dare,” Argella all but growls, but Ellyn shakes her head.

“Yes. He is a good man, he loves her so, and maybe- if he could love you too, everything-,”

“He does not love me, he cannot love me, and even if he could, I would not want it,” Argella stands up, outraged. “How can you say these things to me? As if- I love you! _You_!”

“You did not _love me_ when he found us together,” Ellyn says furiously, wiping at her mouth as if to tear away the memory of it. “You did not love me then-,”

“I was- you know I didn’t mean that! I was- I didn’t know how he would react, I couldn’t have known, I was trying to spare you-,”

“You would spare me by treating me so callously? I was humiliated! You made me feel like a whore."

“You know I love you,” Argella snaps. “I should not have to say it. You have always known. Ever since we were children-,

Ellyn drops her voice to a furious whisper. “No! You- you do say it, when you love someone, you must say it, because you don’t know what could happen- no, I have not always known! How do you think I felt, watching you marry him?”

“How do you think I felt, watching you wed Lyonel Stokeworth,” Argella sneers. “Gods be good, at least I got seven kingdoms out of it! You got a few bloody fields and some sheep! You think that did not _hurt_ me, knowing he was taking you away for nothing-,”

“And you could never forgive me for it,” Ellyn’s voice winds back up to a yell, “you never could, when I told you, you would not speak to me for a week-,”

“I was heartbroken! I- I knew I was losing you!”

“Then you should have TOLD me,” Ellyn shouts. “Told me, instead of- whatever you would call that! Gods, sometimes you act like a bloody man! I think you think you ought to! To shame them all!”

“You have no idea,” says Argella after a beat of vicious, clawing silence. “You have no idea what it is like for me. If you never have a babe, it will not matter. There won’t be a fucking war over it! If I- if I fail in this, where will I be? Another gods-damned Targaryen disaster! Another Great Council to pick the successors! And who will they blame? Brave Prince Duncan? Oh, certainly not!”

“It will matter to me!” Ellyn cries. “I want this! I want what you _have_! I want a daughter! It doesn’t have to be a son. It could be a daughter- I want a babe of my own, and you think I could be satisfied here, the third party to your marriage-,”

“Oh, it’s barely a marriage,” Argella scoffs.

“You have a child! A household! You will have more children! What will I be, their spinster aunt? Poor Ellyn Morrigen, poor Ellyn Stokeworth- can you not see why I should want something all my own?”

“You have me,” Argella feels a sudden terrible pinch of fear at the base of her spine. “I’m yours, all of me, you have me, Ellie, don’t do this-,”

“You have not been mine since we were fifteen, nor I yours,” Ellyn exhales raggedly. “It is time we both accepted that. I love you. You think you love me. But I don’t- I don’t have anything, when I’m not with you, and I can’t… I want something more than that. I want a family. I want to be remembered for something.”

Argella wants to slap her, wants to shake her silly, wants to throttle her. She also wants to break down and weep at her feet like a child. She backs away instead. “Don’t go. I will never forgive you if you go.”

“I will never forgive myself if I stay.” Ellyn straightens, shoulders tight and back, chin raised. “I will write you. We can visit one another-,”

“Then go,” Argella spits, and turns away from her, back towards the window. In its reflection, she sees Ellyn reach towards her, stop, and then slowly walk away, receding into the light. She slams a hand against the glass, hard, and it rattles in the frame but does not break. She squints hatefully into the sunset, and wishes once again for rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently it's not getting done in 4 chapters. 
> 
> This is not the last we see of Ellyn, don't worry!
> 
> More focus on Duncan's family to come, more kids, and a rebellion on the horizon.


	4. the tops of the trees are like islands

Once Ellyn has gone, the drought begins. Not just for Argella, but all the island, and, if the reports are true, much of the Crownlands and the northern half of the Stormlands. Not so much as a single shower for months on end. This has been a plentiful summer thus far, a welcome recovery after the five years of harsh winter that began Aegon V’s reign, but no summer lasts forever, and the Seven do not rule the weather. Elenei and her forefathers do, and they are fickle indeed. So Ellyn leaves for Stokeworth and the year closes and the rains do not come again. So Dragonstone is not so damp after all, just dry and bitter and dreary. “Better a dry cool than a dry heat,” says Duncan, ever the optimist, but even in his high spirits over the birth of Rhaenys, he knows better than to poke the bear. 

Ellyn is gone, and Rhaenys reaches five moons, six moons, seven moons and still Duncan will not go. And she has not the spirits to provoke a fight to try to incite him to leave them, either. Mother tutted and murmured about how well a babe often brought quarrelsome couples together, and Argella had rolled her eyes and scoffed aloud and exchanged derisive looks with, who else but Ellyn? But now Ellyn isn’t here. Ellyn, who held her while she birthed her princess and sang Rhaenys to sleep and helped her latch onto Argella’s breast when she woke. Ellyn who changed Rhaenys and burped her and fed her and was always at Argella’s side, always with a smile and some crooned greeting for the babe. 

Once Argella woke to find that Rhaenys had been crying in the night, and it was Ellyn- not her, not Duncan, who had gone to relieve the exhausted maid and rocked Rhaenys until they both nodded off in a chair by the fire. She feels like she’s been widowed. Mother would call it foolishness of the tallest order- a lady companion cannot compare to a husband, a protector, a provider, but that is what Ellyn was. She protected, if not Argella’s body, her mind, her spirits. She provided. But at least widows can feel noble in their grief, justified. Argella widowed herself. She drove Ellyn away. And try as she might to put quill to parchment, she cannot find the words to apologize. She has only ever apologized for anything twice before in her life, and both times were to Ellyn. Baratheons are, as a rule, far from the apologetic sort.

But even if she does apologize, what good will it do? It will not bring Ellyn back. It will not make things right between them. How could things ever be right between them? Argella loathes to admit it, but even she, when pressed, can see Ellyn’s point. How does one go about raising a child with three parents, two recognized and even adored, the third a silent and secretive onlooker to all the grand events of life? Yes, perhaps they could have had some idyllic sense of bliss here. But it would not have lasted, even had Ellyn been content. Duncan will be king someday, and Argella queen. 

There is no question of ‘settling down’ to live out the rest of their lives in their own private fashion, even should Aegon live to be a hundred. They will always have to be poised to take the reins at any moment, and they will need to be liked, even loved, by the people, for they have no dragons, and without dragons, a king who wants to claim rule of Seven Kingdoms, must inevitably court them all as he might seven brides. When Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters came, there was precious little courting. Those seven maids fell weeping and sighing into their arms, save Dorne, who sat coolly off to the side plucking at a harp that wept poison with every sultry note. 

Men with dragons do not need to be particularly endearing or ingratiating. Men with silver-gold hair and violet eyes and two warrior queen wives can to an extent lean back on legend alone, at least with the commons, who surely thought them gods. Duncan has no Balerion, no magic, no unnatural beauty. He is an ordinary man wed to an- and Argella chokes on the word but can admit all the same- ordinary woman and he has ordinary looks and fucks an ordinary mistress and is a knight of ordinary abilities with an ordinary sword and an ordinary horse. The great game, of course, is pretending none of that is true. Making the ordinary extraordinary, coaxing back some awe and wonder, like a mummer’s show bringing myths to life across a hay-strewn stage. 

At six moons, Rhaenys’ eyes had settled to violet, the violet of her father and grandfather, but there is no streak of silver or gold lurking in her dark curls. Violet eyes and a powerful name will have to be enough. A mother and a father and an empty place at the table where Ellyn used to sit and excitedly speak about Targaryen history and kings of old with Shaera, while Argella and Duncan sighed and begged for a subject change, and Daenora chided Maegor to stop playing with his food, will have to be enough. Sometimes Argella thinks she hears Ellyn’s light footfall in the corridor, or hears her murmuring to herself on the stairs- Ellyn always mumbled to herself when she was trying to remember where she’d left a book.

The truly queer thing is that only Ellyn’s departure could persuade Argella Baratheon and Shaera Targaryen into anything approaching a friendship. Argella has never hated Shaera. Shaera is a child, truly, even at sixteen. She was a child when Argella first met her, when Argella was thirteen and she eleven, she was a child when she eloped with Jaehaerys, and she was a child when she was pressed, tearful and heartbroken, into Argella’s service while Jae was ushered off to Oldtown to study himself blind. It’s difficult to hate someone so inherently naive and innocent.

Argella doesn’t truly believe Shaera and Jae were thinking of anything along the lines of power or greed or ambition when they wed, they were just sheerly so self-centered that the idea of their grand romance not having a quick and easy happy ending never really occurred to them. They were prepared to go dashing off into the sunset, or die in one another’s arms, the perfect story. To instead be separated, physically if not legally, was unthinkable, unspeakable. 

But it’s very easy to dislike someone naive and innocent and selfish, and, to be completely honest, a bit of a priss. Argella knows she’s hardly one to talk, not being terribly fond of riding at all, be it side-saddle or astride, as Duncan once unthinkingly suggested while she complained, but really, Shaera once broke into a shrill, piercing scream of terror usually reserved for rape or murder when her dainty little gelding broke into a brief canter. The guards were in a panic thinking her mount had thrown her, instead of just taking her through a grassy meadow alongside the road.

But Ellyn and Shaera always got along well enough, much to Argella’s annoyance, always gossiping and murmuring about this and that, comparing needlework and trading family histories. Argella does not know if Shaera simply picked it all up from Jaehaerys, who is notoriously bookish, and to hear Betha tell it, has been so since birth, or if she has a genuine passion for reading and writing herself, but Ellyn and Shaera could spend hours upon hours in Dragonstone’s library, pestering the septon to help them find this or that scroll, carrying around flickering torches and squealing with delight at the discovery of some shriveled old family tree or scrap of a letter. 

So Argella does have pity, when Shaera is despondent upon Ellyn’s absence, and it’s more than pity, for she feels the same, even worse, so… so she supposes they do have something in common there, at last. And, for better or worse, Shaera seems genuinely fond of Rhaenys, always cooing over her and asking to hold her, and when she breaks down in tears and confesses that she worries she may never have children of her own with Jae, because her cycles have always been erratic, Argella does not dismiss it as the frettings of a spoilt girl, and wraps a long arm round her shoulders instead. 

“And… and I miss Mother,” Shaera confesses, seeming to take this as an opportunity to cry over everything there is to cry about, “and Rhae, and- and even Father, even if part of me hates him, does that make sense? And of course I miss Daeron, even if he is such a little bother, and Jaehaerys… and Jae…,” her cries stutter out into wrenching sobs, and Argella exhales and rubs methodical circles in her back, the way she used to do for Harbert during his tantrums as a little boy. “What if he doesn’t feel the same, when we see each other again?” Shaera says breathily. “What if he… what if he thinks it’s wrong, that we were wrong to… He’s so distant in his letters! You don’t think he’s found another to love, do you? Some Hightower girl?”

Part of Argella wants to spitefully propose that perhaps, an attraction to someone not a sister, while a terrible shock for a Targaryen, might not be entirely… distressing… but Shaera is getting red spots across her pretty face, she’s crying so hard, and she won’t pretend she hasn’t thought similar things about Ellyn, feared that it was more than just a rejection of… of this… that maybe Ellyn thought it had been wrong of them all along, that she belonged with a husband, not Argella, that she might come to love another just as much, if not more… 

“Of course you miss them all,” she says instead. “You love them. You think I don’t miss my own parents? I haven’t seen my father nor Ormund since the wedding, and it’s been three months now since my mother returned to Storm’s End. And Harbert’s off squiring for Ser Duncan, up to gods know what, since that tree of a man attracts trouble the way honey does flies- We all miss the ones we love. If Jaehaerys is distant in his letters, it’s because he’s far too shy to say half of he wants in written words, and you know that better than I. Does he seem the sort to play you false? To go and love another? You’ve known him all your life, Shaera. Surely you do not just love him because he is your brother.”

Shaera jerks away, stung. “Of course not! I- I didn’t wed him because he is my brother. I love him! I have always loved him, and he me, and I… I don’t care what anyone thinks of it, or says, nor does he. It’s not an abomination. Father only hates the idea of it so because his father wanted him to wed Daella, and he’s only ever loved Mother like that. And because he blames his father for making Nora marry Aerion, just because she was a cousin.”

“No, your father hates it so because you broke two marriage alliances to fuck each other,” says Argella, patting her on the shoulder, “but you and Jaehaerys are both of age now, we haven’t had any rebellions over it, thank the Seven, and your children will be no threat to mine.” That is really more of a promise, not a plain statement of fact, but Shaera, bless her, does not immediately react anyways, biting at her lower lip and pouting and wiping at her eyes. “If you wish to take him to bed every night when you next see one another, you might as well, after all this fuss over it. Now dry your eyes, gods be good, Shaera. You’ve got tearstains all over both our skirts, and Rhaenys needs feeding.” 

But for all Argella’s brusqueness, Shaera seems to almost seek out her company after that, as opposed to just tolerating her, as they had been before. Duncan seems oddly cheered by the sight of them speaking amiably with one another and walking through the gardens together, Rhaenys in one of their arms, grabbing at overhanging branches. Argella would rather not be praised for the mere act of getting along with his little sister, and so avoids him on principle until that proves impossible. As it turns out, avoiding one’s husband was much easier when one did not have a child with him. 

Duncan never freely entered her rooms before (and certainly not after he discovered her and Ellyn that time) but since Rhaenys’ birth he is always coming in and out, often with his daughter in his arms, or worse, now that she is bigger, resting on his shoulders. Argella spends more time than she’d like reminding the lout that he is holding a princess of the realm, and not some common urchin, when he carries her about like a sack of grain. Today he has the audacity to sit on her bed and play with his daughter, holding some tantalizing beaded chain just out of her reach, trying to coax her into sitting up to grab it while she giggles and whimpers.

“Don’t you think it’s high time you returned to the mainland?” Argella finally bursts out, after giving up at reorganizing her jewelry box. This why she has maids. 

Duncan doesn’t look up from his taunting of their child; Rhaenys, the little traitor, absolutely adores him, although it isn’t very surprising. Duncan is like his father in that all babes seem to love him. One look at his long face and stringy brown hair and they coo and giggle and squeal. Argella has no idea what it is. Is it his tone of voice? His towering height? The last time she went down to the docks with him, he had some toddler clinging to his leg, grinning up at him with crooked nubs of teeth. She’d had to fight to keep her expression composed while Duncan laughingly returned the child to its horrified mother, who’d been babbling a thousand apologies. 

“Why?” he finally deigns to reply. “What is my latest offense? I’ll admit I was a bit late to dinner last night, but I was giving Maegor riding lessons again, and it’s very easy to lose track of time in the stables.”

“Particularly when you are a friend to every stable boy,” Argella mutters under her breath, then says a bit louder, “You know exactly what I mean. It’s been seven months, Duncan. Do you not miss her?” Had they been having this conversation a year ago, her tone would have been far harsher; as it stands betwixt them now, she sounds more exasperated than anything else, like a world weary older sister. 

She hears him pause, exhale, consider. Duncan can be quick-witted and sharp-tongued like his mother and father, but often he tends to take his time before he replies, particularly with her, and she can’t decide whether it’s gratifying or infuriating. 

“Of course I miss her,” he finally settles on. “I’ve never hid that from you. We exchange letters regularly.”

Argella knew that as well, but- “I wasn’t aware she could read and write to the degree of producing satisfying correspondence.” She just can’t help herself.

“Jenny’s mother taught her to read and write as a child,” he says coldly. “She is every bit as capable-,”

Argella turns around to face him, scowling. “Can I not jape?”

“I’ll let you know when I find your japes amusing,” he retorts.

“Then we shall be waiting until Rhaenys is grown and flowered,” she snaps back, just as their daughter managed to grasp the beads, breaking the the cheap string chain and sending them scattering across her frock and the bedspread. “Duncan!” she hisses, jumping to her feet. “Don’t let her swallow any of them!”

They spend the next few minutes frantically collecting beads and checking their daughter’s drooling mouth, until Argella gathers Rhaenys into her lap, sits across from him on the bed, and says in a more subdued voice, “I only meant to say… That you need not feel bound to stay here, for… for however long. Rhaenys is healthy and growing strong. If you think I will reproach you and curse you for going back to see her…” It is her turn to let out a long, slow breath. “I will not. She is no friend of mine, and I care not for her happiness, but as you indulged Ellyn and I, I can indulge her and you.”

His eyes soften slightly at that; he even dares to take her hand. It is a tribute to a newly acquired mother’s patience that Argella does not jerk away, not because he repels her so, but because he never properly scrubs under his nails, and he just spent the last few hours mucking about in the stables with Maegor and he horses. “When we return to court to celebrate Rhaenys’ first name day, I will make inquiries, see if the Stokeworths’ presence cannot be requested-,”

“Don’t,” she says swiftly, although without any real bile. “We aren’t discussing that right now, anyways. If it is conceiving another child, a son, you are concerned about, we can… then we should start trying again soon. But I’ve no intention of locking you away here to breed more Targaryens with me. If you love her as you claim to, you should be with her when you can. Don’t… don’t grow accustomed to a woman waiting for you. They do not wait forever.” It is hard to keep the bitterness from her voice then, although it’s directed more at herself than him.

“She understands,” Duncan says. “I know it seems… strange, but she does, truly. She was worried for you, and the babe, before I left for here. She wanted me to go back even earlier. She is not… she has never been jealous, or bitter, or angry with me, Jenny. She understands.”

“Unlike your doting wife,” Argella removes her hand from his, smiling sardonically.

“You are your own woman,” Duncan’s mouth quirks up slightly. “I would not have it any other way.”

“I’ll let you know when I find your japes amusing,” she scoffs. “If you love her, you should not neglect her so.”

“I thought I would have returned to her by now,” he admits, and while Duncan is often frank and forthright, he is seldom this open, either, and it catches Argella off-guard, that they could even speak like this, as peers, as if they were almost friends of a sort. “I… You will hate me for saying this, but I did not know if I would… if what I would feel for the babe, for Rhaenys…” He exhales again. “I love her now. You know I do. But I had not thought I would come to love her so quickly, nor so strongly.”

“You thought you could not love a child born of a loveless marriage,” Argella says flatly, but she is not as infuriated as she perhaps should be. There was never any question of her not loving this child, after all. Mothers are expected to love their children. It is demanded of them. Fathers are expected to protect their children. But sometimes it is easier to protect someone, to shelter them, to command them as you do your servants and your guards, than it is to love them, to want to be with them, to be willing to sacrifice for them. She would do anything for Rhaenys, and that was never a conscious choice on her part.

“I didn’t think I would never love her,” Duncan reaches over and takes one of Rhaenys’ small feet in his hand, cradles it against his callused palm. Their daughter gurgles happily up at him, and he cannot help but smile back. “But I did worry that… I thought it would be easier to leave her, if her mother and I shared no real affection between us, if she was just a babe… But that is not how it has gone. She is my daughter, my firstborn. I look at her and I see my mother, and my father, and my brothers and sisters. I see all of them in her; her eyes and her smile and her hair and her nose and ears- and I see you too, and you must see some of me in her, surely. Is that not strange?”

“To love a part of someone?” Argella frowns, but then she yields slightly; “You can love a tapestry with a hundred colored threads in it, and still dislike the color green, or red, or blue. I do see you in her.”

“Yet you love her despite it.”

“Not despite it,” Argella looks at him, truly looks at him for the first time in a long while, and does not feel unhappy or uncomfortable or irritated or afraid. She does not feel some overwhelming rush of admiration or love or affection, either, but… “I respect you,” she says bluntly. “More than I thought I would when we wed, and more than I should. I seldom agree with you, but I cannot hate you, either. And you are a good father to her. You have done your duty. I will not forgive you, or forget, but I do not loathe you. You were right, what you said, before we came here. I do not want her to grow up with a mother and father who hate one another, disparage one another. We should always be united when it comes to our children.”

“Then I swear that she will never hear an unkind word from me regarding you,” Duncan says with a slight smile. “You are, I think, the most ferocious mother any child could ask for.”

“And you think you are very clever,” she rolls her eyes, but smiles briefly back at him. “I will grant you a truce. But you should go to Jenny. If she is as understanding as you claim, then she will forgive a father’s love for his daughter… but Summerhall seems a lonely place for a river maid.”

She doesn’t care about Jenny of Oldstones, she’s come to realize, doesn’t care whether her tale is a tormented romance or a whimsical tragedy, but she does care about Duncan. Not in the way she ought to or the way she thought she might, but he is right. They share a child. There is real blood between them now, a child of flesh and bone, a child that has both of them inside her veins and in her heart, and to hate Duncan would be to hate part of Rhaenys, and she could not, will not, sink to those depths. 

Duncan leaves a month later for Summerhall. Their intentions are to return to court for the joint grand celebration of the King’s sole grandchild’s first name day and her brother’s wedding to Celia Tully, and then to finally undertake a progress together, one of the Stormlands, to start with. They will be able to accompany her brother’s party back to Storm’s End, visit Bronzegate and Tarth and the prominent houses, and then journey through the Reach so long as the seasons permit it. Argella has grown fond of Dragonstone, but it is a hollow place without Ellyn, and perhaps Mother was right. The travel and the people seeing them together with their daughter may do her good in the long-run. 

The four months of drought finally break on the voyage back to the mainland. A vicious storm rocks the ship, with lashing winds and massive waves, and Argella prays first to the Mother for the preservation of herself and her child, then lights a sputtering candle, grips in her interlocked fists, and entreats Elenei as she never has before, hot wax dripping down onto her knuckles and fingers. The old gods of the North have no words, no verbal prayers. The old gods of the Stormlands have chants and songs in the Old Tongue, or some bastardization of it, the words slurred and blended together and broken from years of scattered use and constant shifts in dialect. Elenei’s Song is said to be what she sung to entreat her father to stop his storms thrown up against Durran. 

But the storm breaks by the time the candle is down to a stub, and although one of the sails is damaged, they make it to the Blackwater in one piece, more or less. The crew looks ready to make for the nearest tavern, Shaera is still fighting back vomit, and Daenora firmly declares that she doesn’t intend to set foot on a ship again for the next few years unless it’s a matter of life or death. Argella is more concerned with Rhaenys, but aside from an upset stomach, and many ruined clothes, she seems perfectly well.

Argella has been away from the city and court for less than two years, but it feels much longer. Harbert was eleven and still a little boy in many ways when she left. She returns to find him nearly thirteen and having shot up a good five inches in height; he’s nearly to her shoulder now, and she is six feet tall. He carries live steel and does not have to sprint to keep pace with Ser Duncan the Tall, who is as quiet and unobtrusive as always, although he does break into a broad smile at the sight of Rhaenys, saying she is the very picture of Rhaelle as a babe. 

Rhaelle herself no longer seems like quite a child either; she is taller as well, and has lost some of the baby fat in her face. She is less interested in dolls and ponies, and more interested in her betrothed. Samwell Tully seems utterly baffled by her sudden tongue-tied state around him, after years of chatter, but is too busy preparing for his family’s arrival in the capitol to take much notice of it. And Daeron is fourteen now, in the middle of an awkward growth spurt but still a handsome youth, and no less close with Jeremy Norridge; they elbow and jostle each other as they step forward to greet her, and with no hesitation Daeron scoops Rhaenys out of Argella’s arms and twirls her around in the air, snickering at her shriek of laughter. 

At least Aegon and Betha have had sense enough to not call Jaehaerys back from Oldtown yet, not with his former betrothed wedding Argella’s brother in the royal sept. The Crown is hosting this wedding as a way of making amends for their own missteps, and as a result everything must be perfect, and Argella is only glad that Rhaenys’ own wedding is years and years away, for Betha seems liable to start screaming and tearing her hair out at any moment. In the mean time she settles back into fresh rooms, takes stock of the new courtiers, begins a letter to Ellyn and only gets past the first line, and begrudgingly promises Shaera that yes, after their tour of the Stormlands, they will make time to visit Oldtown while in the Reach.

Rhaenys’ first name day is a fortnight before the wedding. Her family and Duncan arrive within hours of one another. Argella greets her husband in full view of the court with a chaste kiss on the cheek and an almost warm embrace, then lets him hold their daughter, who does not recognize his new beard and promptly begins to wail. “You’d better shave it before tonight,” she tells him amiably enough, resisting the urge to laugh as he runs a hand over his jaw in dismay, and then is distracted by the entrance of her own kin.

Father is as loud and aggressively pleased to see her as ever, Mother is all a-frenzy with last minute plans for Ormund’s wedding, and Ormund, the poor thing, looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else, but even he manages a smile at the sight of his niece. Luckily Rhaenys has stopped crying by then, and seems to register how similar brother and sister look- she keeps glancing from her mother to her uncle with wide violet eyes. 

“Now,” Argella says, clapping Ormund on the brawny shoulder. “You know if she’d been a son I’d have put up a fight for Ormund Targaryen, so I expect to see another Argella if your first is a girl.”

He snorts. “And if it’s a boy?”

“Then you must call him Jaehaerys, for you’ve him to thank for wedding Celia in the first place,” and she can barely keep a straight face.

Argella never had the chance to know Celia all that well, but by all accounts she’s a quick-witted girl with a good head for politics, something that will be sorely missed around Riverrun, because everyone knows Franklyn Tully is a kindly man, a devoted father and husband, and an often ineffective ruling lord. Not to the degree of bungling that Tytos Lannister regularly displays, to be sure, but the Brackens, Blackwoods, and Freys are running the poor man ragged with land disputes. By all accounts, his wife, a Herston of Cockscomb, isn’t much help in that regard. She hopes Sam Tully develops a bit more iron to his spine, before the Blackwoods manage to claw even more favors out of Franklyn Tully and Aegon. One royal mistress and an unlikely queen consort, and suddenly they believe themselves to be real contenders. 

But tonight is for Rhaenys, and Argella wears a new gown of deep Targaryen crimson with a fine black sash, her daughter sitting in her lap in a new lace bonnet, while Aegon toasts his granddaughter and the rest of the court get to their feet cups in hand. Duncan is freshly shaven and smiles over his cup at her, and she smiles back before downing her wine, and then Olenna Redwyne is not-so-quietly asking Daenora if they’re going to have any dancing, or just sit here all night making speeches to a toddler. So Argella hands Rhaenys over to Shaera, who is wishfully regarding the nearest doorway, as if hoping Jaehaerys will appear out of thin air, and asks Duncan if he’d like to lead the dancing with her. 

Luthor Tyrell appears to have beaten Daeron out in asking for Olenna’s hand in the dance first, and Ormund has taken Celia’s small hand in his own, uncharacteristically bashful, and Rhaelle is shooting a series of glances at Samwell, flushed bright pink while her mother looks on with a dry smile, at least before the king taps her on the shoulder like a green boy. Duncan is average at many things, but he is a slightly above average dancer, and Argella a very good one, considering her towering height and big feet that would be easy to trip over. Harbert has very boldly inquired with Daenora, it would seem, and Argella suppresses a bark of laughter as she watches him stride out onto the floor with her trailing him in a wispy cloud of sky blue silk. 

“What’s so funny now?” Duncan wants to know, arching an eyebrow, but she just shakes her head and praises the choice in song, for Fair Maids of Summer always gets everyone up. 

Later, she will sit at her desk, and the words to give to Ellyn will flow a little easier, as they always do after a few cups of wine, and she will write about their first ball at court together, and asks if she remembers how, after enduring several rounds of tedious dancing with over eager squires and lordlings, they ducked out into the hall to dance to Fair Maids of Summer together, and went spinning and skidding down the darkened corridor, past moldering tapestries and flickering torches, only to pretend they were looking for a lost hair comb when Ellyn’s mother came out to look for them. It had poured rain that night, pattering off the roofs and windows of the Red Keep.

_It did not rain for some time after you left_, she will write, _but the maesters say summer is coming to a close, and there are many autumn storms ahead. The fields at Stokeworth must be beautiful after the rain. I should like to see them sometime_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're about to have a massive time jump (like 9 years) bc I don't have the time or energy for this to be a full breakdown of Westerosi history from 242-251. That said, we're getting to the good stuff. 
> 
> If I had my way Fire & Blood would have been written by a notable medieval Westerosi scholar who also just so happened to be an educated noblewoman and not a pervy maester, so there's that. _The Dragon's Ascent, a Comprehensive History of House Targaryen_ by Ellyn Stokeworth nee Morrigen coming to bookshelves near you. (jk but maybe). 
> 
> I'd like to think Argella matures in this chapter, between getting used to co-parenting and realizing how badly she fucked up with Ellyn and that she's going to have to put in some solid effort to create a good public image with Duncan if she really wants to be this beloved and powerful queen someday. 
> 
> New goal is for this to be either 6/7 chapters total, depending on how much gets covered next chapter. This is not really a politics or history-oriented fic and more focused on the interpersonal Targ family drama, which is why my world-building here is probably much more lackadaisical than in long-term fics of mine.
> 
> I just think it's really funny that canonically, the North is not the only place that had 'old gods' before the Andals came, but that's never really addressed in fics much? I guess bc the Faith of the Seven has really taken root everywhere else, but Argella has no issues worshiping both simultaneously.


	5. brutal faces forming out of stone

The name Lannister may invite more mockery than reverence in recent years, but Argella will concede that they do know how to entertain. The great hall of the Rock where Lord Tytos holds court is filled with sunshine and laughter, bouncing off the walls and ringing off the high windows where hazy summer light pours in. Argella watches the dust motes dancing in the air before redirecting her drifting gaze to the real dancing; a visiting mummer’s troupe cavorts before the assembled lords and ladies, performing all sorts of feats of mischief and wonder. Argella watches blue fire flare out of a horn, then exchanges a bemused look with Duncan as one of the dancers vaults past them and into a somersault, her skirts flaring up around her vividly colored undergarments. 

“My oh my,” she says under her breath, “good thing Jenny isn’t here.”

“Good thing Ellyn isn’t here,” he retorts, and Argella wrinkles her nose in a scowl at him before chuckling. 

She has lived through many summers, but this now, one entering its second year, has been a brutal one. Not just because of the spectacular, scorching heat drying up fields and streams and shrinking rivers, but because it began with a series of terrifying storms up and down the eastern coasts, followed by the sickness. Not the Shivers, thank the gods, but the maesters are calling it the Summer Sweats. It is nothing to the extent of the Great Spring Sickness, and according to the latest letters out of King’s Landing, they believe the worst of it has passed and the city should shortly be safe once more. 

Yet thousands are dead in the Crownlands all the same. It could be worse. It could be tens of thousands, and it could have spread across Westeros. It could have struck fiercely at the royal family. As it stands, only Ser Duncan the Tall and Daenora were afflicted, and both are reportedly recovering well. But it hit the Celtigars, who were summering at court, badly; Princess Rhae is mourning the loss of her husband and daughter, Helaene, as well as several young grandchildren. Mathos Celtigar reportedly lost his wife and young son. 

Argella has always loathed most of Duncan’s Celtigar cousins, for they never did much to hide their desire to be viewed as ‘second only to Targaryens’ when it came to the blood of Old Valyria, and they certainly had something to say about her dark-haired children, but she would not have wished that sort of devastation on them. She is grateful she and Duncan and the children were traveling when it first broke out, and grateful that Ellyn and her son and daughter were spared, when the sickness took her husband. 

Stokeworth is in mourning; it would be entirely improper and scandal-inviting for Ellyn to have gone cavorting off in the wake of Lord Stokeworth’s death. But she will be waiting at court when they return, Argella is sure of that. This temporary separation is for the best. Argella would do a miserable job of pretending to grieve Lyonel Stokeworth with her, and Ellyn will have the time to tighten her grip on her own household properly, now that she is a widow with two young children, Tanda and Owen. The thought of returning to Ellyn is a cheering one, regardless of the terrible fortunes of this summer. They came up the Ocean Road from Highgarden, and after a month at the Rock they will take the Gold Road back to the capitol. The weather in the West seems fair enough thus far, even if the heat is crippling. 

“Look,” Duncan is telling her, “they’ve brought out a dwarf and- is that a lion cub?” He leans forward in his seat for a better look, while Argella is distracted again, this time by trying to count heads. She seems to be missing several children. Baela, the youngest, is sitting in a maid’s lap nearby, happy as could be, clapping her chubby palms together in delight, but the elder three are gone. She huffs in annoyance. She loves her daughters and her son, she does, but they are at the age now where they’ve begun to get into all sorts of devilment. She can hardly complain, as she was far from a docile little girl herself, but- she was not a princess, was she? 

The dwarf is now pretending to fight said lion cub, which Duncan seems to find riveting, but Argella is busy craning her neck, glancing around the packed hall, where highborn and lowborn alike look on, drinking and laughing in the midday glow. There are plenty of children scurrying about, be they servants in dirty smocks or little lordlings in velvet and lace, but none related to her. 

The other half of the massive lord’s table is taken up by the Lannister brood; fat, jovial Tytos with his golden beard, his pretty, pinch-lipped wife, Lady Jeyne Marbrand, whose coppery hair is gleaming in the light, and the youngest two; plump little Genna Lannister and the baby, Tygett, teething and drooling in some cousin’s lap. The eldest two sons, Tywin and Kevan, are missing as well.

“Duncan,” she says, but she’s drowned out by a thunderous round of applause from the crowd. 

Her husband has stood up to clap enthusiastically, likely about to toss some gold dragons down to the mummer’s troupe. He is very fond of such things; she blames Shaera and Jaehaerys and Jenny and the wild court of freaks, oddities, urchins, and witches kept at Summerhall. Shaera and Jaehaerys, still behaving as though in newly wedded bliss, have made it into their primary household, and are far too indulgent of Duncan’s mistress and her horde of common friends, some of whom are disturbingly uncommon- one is rumored to be a white-haired, red-eyed, she-dwarf who speaks in tongues.

It is no place for children, which Argella thinks bodes poorly for Shaera and Jae’s own; Aerys and Rhaella are seven and six, and their behavior leaves something to be desired, to say the least.

But she can hardly criticize at a time like this, when her own appear to have absconded with the Laughing Lion’s sons.

“Duncan,” she snaps, gripping his elbow, and he finally glances back at her. “They’ve run off somewhere.”

He looks around and sighs. “Should I go-,”

“No,” she says firmly, “it’d be rude for us both to rush out, not to mention a waste of our time here. Do go speak to Lady Jeyne, won’t you? Her lord husband’s dead drunk already and it’s not even dusk yet. I want her word that the heir will be coming back with us to the capitol. It is high time Aemon had some friends who were not his cousins, books, or another damned puppy or kitten.”

Duncan looks as though he’d like to sigh again, but simply knits his thick brows together and nods reluctantly in agreement. Argella straightens up, picking up her skirts, and marches off to find her wayward progeny.

She checks the Golden Gallery first; when they arrived a week and a half ago, it was one of the first places the Lannisters brought them to visit. Duncan had found it an obscene display of wealth on a ludicrous scale, and Argella had been more interested with the various gilded tombs of the most valiant Lannisters, as well as the jewel-encrusted armor on display. One would never know there were so very many ways to set rubies and emeralds into gold or iron. But the gallery is silent and empty, aside from the dead, stone hands clasped tightly around gleaming sheathed swords and polished axes and hammers. “Rhaenys! Aemon!” Argella calls out into the depths of the narrow room, her voice ringing out into the suits of armor and hanging shields and banners, but there is no response.

Next she tries the Stone Garden, the castle’s windy godswood set on a narrow shelf of a cliff. Beyond the waist-height walls is a view out onto the shimmering Sunset Sea, glowing sapphire blue in the late afternoon light, but the rocky courtyard is deserted as well, aside from the burbling fountain in the center and the leaves of the twisted old weirwood, rustling in the hot wind. 

Argella turns abruptly, crunching pebbles and twigs underfoot, and makes her way back inside, mood darkening. This is absurd. They cannot just scamper off like this whenever it strikes their fancy. She would send servants out to do her bidding if she thought they stood any chance of success, but it’s always been clear enough that it is up to her to play judge and executioner when it comes to the children.

Casterly Rock is a massive fortress; the size of two Storm’s Ends stacked atop one another, and far larger than the Red Keep, even including Maegor’s Holdfast, much as she hates to admit it. Were she to attempt to search every room, hall, and courtyard, she’d be here for weeks, if not months. Coming down an enameled staircase, footsteps echoing across the stone floor, she forces herself to stop and consider. Where would she go to explore, were she a child? What’s more, were she one of Tytos Lannister’s sons, where would she bring some inquisitive guests, to impress or intimidate them with tales of her house’s might and glory?

She stands there, thinking, for another moment, before she has it, something Duncan mentioned while they were staying over for a night in Lannisport. Rumor has it the Lannisters still keep lions caged in the very depths of the Rock, presumably to feed their prisoners to… or simply for the looks of it all. After all, the Targaryens can no longer boast of dragons, so why should the Lannisters not pride themselves on keeping a few well-fed lions? 

That in mind, she finds the nearest stairwell, and starts the long, tedious descent down floor after floor, wishing they had some sort of pulley system, the way the Wall is said to. Duncan wishes to see it someday before he dies. She could easily go several lifetimes without paying a visit to anywhere that far North, but as it stands, the furthest north she and the children have ever been is Fairmarket. They will have to go pay respect to the Starks at some point, dull and dreary a thought it might seem. 

Argella is not the spry girl she was at eighteen; seven-and-twenty and more thick waisted than she’d perhaps like after birthing four children, she is panting and disheveled by the time she finally reaches the lowermost level of the Rock. But she’s struck true; she can hear the distant chatter and laughter of children, and she takes a moment to grimly adjust her golden tiara, which features a snarling Targaryen dragon’s head framed by Baratheon antlers studded with tiny garnets, arranges her hair in a more pleasing manner, and then stalks in the direction of the voices, her pace quickening at the sound of a faint growl.

She wishes she’d thought to bring a guard, or Bert, now Ser Harbert Baratheon of the Kingsguard, with her when she throws open the doors of the room. In the large iron cage at the center, two aged lions prowl, stalking their small prey who leap and parry beyond the bars. It’s enough to give anyone pause, and her mother’s heart twists in momentary fear in her chest, but she bats it away like a cat might. Her children aren’t in any immediate danger, foolish though they might be. The cage seems quite secure, and the lion’s manes are greying. It’s what’s happening right outside it that concerns her. 

Aemon sits sprawled on the floor, palms flat on the stone, gazing up in trepidation in a very unprincely and fashion. Beside him squats stocky little Kevan Lannister, just as wide eyed and gaping. Around them dashes excitable Elaena, leaping and shouting and cheering like a mummer’s acrobat herself, her silver-gold hair escaping its careful plaits and frizzing about her flushed face. Of Argella’s four children, her second daughter alone lays claim to the classical Targaryen looks, although Elaena’s eyes are not violet like Rhaenys or indigo like Aemon or the Baratheon blue that Argella and Baela share, but one pale blue, one jade green, mismatched as Shiera Seastar and Alyssa Targaryen’s were. 

Right now Argella could throttle her, Valyrian beauty or not, but she could throttle Rhaenys more, for it is Rhaenys who is clashing wooden swords with- of all children- young Tywin Lannister, who even as Argella watches, is too caught up in the sparring to notice her entrance, and brings his tourney sword down sharply on Rhaenys’ right wrist. She yelps in pain, fumbling her own sword, staggers, takes a wild glance at Argella, and then when he raises his sword to hit her again, screams and tackles him like a street urchin out of Flea Bottom. They both go tumbling to the ground, Elaena lets out a loud whoop, and Kevan springs to his older brother’s defense, trying to yank Rhaenys off of Tywin by the arm, although she easily evades him and throws an elbow at his round face.

Aemon, meanwhile, glances fearfully at her, as if he were the one who’d been found fighting like a tavern drunk in front of an audience of hungry lions. 

“RHAENYS!” Argella bellows, and Tywin manages to shove her daughter off him, scrambling up to his feet, panting and red-faced with anger and mortification. Rhaenys shows no such shame, springing back up like a weed, fists raised as if she’s about to box, until Argella roars her name again and she finally retreats, flushed and giddy. 

“Mother, did you see- he said girls couldn’t be knights but I beat him, see, I was winning- I always win,” she throws over her shoulder spitefully at the Lannister brothers. Tywin glowers back at her; he’s a skinny boy of nine, a year younger than Rhaenys, with close-cropped blonde hair that makes his head look shaven from a distance, stick-like arms and legs, and a long neck. 

Argella hopes for his sake that he grows into those looks, although they say Tytos was handsome enough as a young man, and Jeyne Marbrand is undeniably a beauty. Kevan is wider and shorter than him at seven, and wears his hair longer and curling around his ears. He has a jaw too strong for his young face, much like Argella’s own children, and his green eyes are a shade darker than his older brother’s, and his nose bigger. 

“You cheated,” Kevan says insistently, “didn’t she, Ty, that’s not fair-,” he tugs at his brother’s arm, “you can’t tackle in sparring, can you? She just dropped her sword!”

Tywin’s mouth opens and shuts furiously, as though he were trying to work out what to say without screaming himself silly, and he finally spits out, “You’d be dead if it were live steel!” Then he seems to realize what he has just said, and to who, and in front of the Crown Prince’s lady wife, no less, and his mouth clamps shut again, although to the boy’s credit he does not avert his eyes in shame or fear or immediately retract it. 

“I won,” Rhaenys retorts in a sing-song voice. “If it were live steel I’d have won too! We’d have armor, and I’d bash you in your stupid face with my shield!”

“I’d be wearing a helm,” Tywin says out of the corner of his twitching-in-fury mouth, apparently unable to resist. “A helm. And you wouldn’t have a shield, you wouldn’t even have a sword, because you’re not a knight, you’re not even a page-,”

“So you’d be dead,” Kevan finishes the thought for him with a gleeful note, before considering and turning wide eyes on Argella. “Erm- my lady-,”

Argella clears her throat. The bickering grinds to a halt. Elaena sidles up to her with a winning smile, attempting to take her hand. Argella gives her a look, and she pouts and wanders over to Aemon instead, who has finally gotten up and dusted himself off. “Do I want to know whose idea this was?” Argella asks coldly, turning a well-tuned piercing stare first on her own children, then on the Lannister boys.

“They wanted to see the lions,” Tywin says stiffly. 

“Then Princess Rhaenys said they were ugly and little,” Kevan speaks up earnestly, “and Prince Aemon laughed and said he’d seen bigger tomcats around the Red Keep-,”

Aemon turns scarlet. “I was only japing, Mother, I didn’t mean it-,”

“And then Tywin challenged him to a sparring match,” Rhaenys says viciously. “And he barely even waited for him to be ready- he knew he was going to beat him, Mother! It was craven!”

“I am NOT a craven!” Tywin rounds on her, voice cracking with all the rage a nine year old can muster up.

“You’re so craven you were scared of getting beat by a girl!” Rhaenys mocks, and Argella inserts herself between them, sensing another brawl is imminent. 

“Then Aemy got knocked over,” Elaena inserts slyly in her high, shrill little voice, “and Tywin kicked his sword, and he-,” she points accusingly at Kevan, who blanches as if on trial, “was laughing, Mother-,”

“So I picked it up to defend our honor,” Rhaenys says stubbornly. “It’s my right as his sister! 

Tywin’s lip curls, but before he can say anything, Argella says loudly, “That’s enough. The next person to pick up a sword is getting beaten with it. Rhaenys. Aemon, apologize immediately for being such ungracious guests in the Lannisters’ home. One never mocks one’s hosts in such a manner.” One of the lions growls as if in approval, and she fights not to recoil slightly. “Now,” she adds shortly, when Rhaenys looks ready to argue again and Aemon looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else. 

Rhaenys locks eyes with Tywin, posture unrepentant in the least, and says brusquely, “My apologies, my lords.”

“My apologies,” Aemon echoes her timidly, ducking his head. Argella fights not to glare at him. A prince should not be so obsequious, even when in the wrong. That is Aemon’s problem, or her problem. Somehow, her only son is more of a follower than a leader. How can a boy with three sisters act in such a manner? How can a Targaryen be so… so thin-skinned? Rhaenys is infuriating at times, but at least she has some spine to her, some tenacity. When pushed, Aemon simply rolls over and presents his belly. Rhaenys snarls and charges back into the fray. 

“And now,” Argella says, before either Tywin or Kevan can think to gloat or smirk, “Tywin will apologize for raising arms against a princess… even if they were wooden. I know your lord father did not teach you to spar with little girls,” she says severely. “She is a princess of House Targaryen, and you are the heir to the West. If you wish to spar with Aemon, you need only ask. But you will never raise a hand to any of my daughters.”

“Yes, my lady,” he says immediately, before turning to Rhaenys. “I apologize for my behavior, Princess.” The boy sounds as though the words are being delivered in between kicks to the throat, but he says them all the same, red-faced and rigid.

“Very well,” Argella puts a hand on Rhaenys’ shoulder and squeezes meaningfully. “Let’s go back up to the festivities, shall we? Tywin, Kevan, lead the way.”

The Lannister brothers walk quickly ahead of them, Aemon and Elaena hurrying to keep up (and likely to keep out of the range of her anger as well), but Argella holds Rhaenys back as the others make for the nearest stairwell. Rhaenys meets her gaze defiantly, digging her fingers into the rich material of her dress. Truth be told, she looks a good deal like Betha, although her face is not quite as long and narrow, and her hair is thicker and falls in ringlets, like Argella’s. She has her father’s long lashes, which frame violet eyes narrowed in anger. “I didn’t do anything wrong-,” she begins hotly, but Argella gives her a good shake, cutting off her impassioned defense.

“You are ten years old now. In the next few years you will flower and become a young lady,” Argella lowers her voice as much as she can, but it echoes off the damp stone walls all the same. “I cannot make excuses for you behaving so abominably in public- what do you imagine they will be telling their mother and father? That my children conduct themselves as little ruffians-”

“I was trying to help Aemon,” Rhaenys snaps. “You’re always telling me I’m his big sister, I have to look after him-,”

“That does not mean you should fight his battles for him! Tywin may have humiliated him once, but you did it twice over when you decided to pick up his sword and get into a brawl over it!” Argella lets go of her, scoffing. “Rhaenys. Don’t play the fool with me. You’re a clever girl. You didn’t do that to defend your brother, you did it because you wanted to!”

“I’m a better fighter than him,” Rhaenys says under her breath. “I’ll always be better-,”

“He is eight years old! You are taller and stronger than him now, yes, but in a few years things will be very different for both of you. He will be king someday. He will need powerful friends. Making enemies of Lannisters serves none of our interests. And you will not win yourself any acclaim nor respect by acting like a boy, and an unruly one at that!”

Her daughter’s violet gaze turns spiteful, but she thinks better of retorting, instead turning on her heel and storming up the stairs ahead of Argella, who notices the fraying and torn hem of her embroidered skirt in dismay. Rhaenys is entirely careless with her clothes; she seldom refuses to dress properly, but she goes through slippers, boots, gown, ribbons, and cloaks as if she were a marauding little pirate. One of her gifts for her last name day was a fine red fox pelt with jeweled eyes from her father; Rhaenys refused to take it off for weeks, sitting down for meals with the muzzle snarling atop her temple as though she were a miniature warlord.

Argella knows she would likely complain just as much were Rhaenys some delicate little waif of a child, shrinking away from raised voices and speaking of nothing but dolls or sweets. But surely there is a line somewhere. Perhaps she should have drawn it sooner; her mother would say she has gotten exactly what she deserves in her firstborn; a child even more headstrong and hotheaded than she was at that age. And Rhaenys is spoiled and coddled and treasured, it’s true. Argella could no more keep Duncan from doting on their eldest than she could stop the sun from rising. 

Girls are more difficult, everyone knows it. They are generally only sent away from home to serve as cupbearers or wards as part of betrothals, and both Rhaenys’ mother and father are in agreement there; there will be no betrothal until she has flowered. As it stands, Argella hardly trusts her to comport herself correctly in some other great lord’s household anyways. They’d send her off somewhere and she’d be sent right back with a note explaining how she’d spent all her time riding horses, harassing the servants, and getting into fist fights.

And Aemon will be king someday, so there is no question of sending him away, either. The Red Keep and Dragonstone, those are his homes. Others will send their sons to him, not the other way around. Duncan wants him to go to Riverrun, to be with Rhaelle and Sam and their two small children, to spend some time around more ‘ordinary’ folk, but Argella would not hear of it. Aemon is theirs to mold, and as much as she loves Duncan’s baby sister and her gentle husband, they are certainly not the ones she would pick to instill some discipline in a future king.

“He was just sitting there, watching, while his own sister went and- as she puts it, defended our honor,” she rants to Duncan later in their lavishly decorated guest chambers. “Can you imagine? Our son! He will be Prince of Dragonstone someday, and he is content to let his elder sister fight his battles for him while he gapes after her like a halfwit!” She winces when the maid’s comb snags on a curl and snatches it away. “Go to bed, Melys. It’s impossible, I’ll bathe in the morning and try again.”

Duncan waits until the room is free of servants before he replies, rather laconically, “The more you push him, the less inclined he is to rise to the occasion. Rhaenys walks right over him- I wonder who she learned that from?” He raises an eyebrow at her from his position, lazing about on her bed while his long fingers fidget with some curious jeweled puzzle box the Lannisters gifted Rhaenys with, which was promptly discarded by her on account of being ‘dull’. “You favor her.”

“Favor her?” Argella huffs in disbelief. “Duncan, I spend half my days trying to keep her from ruining her reputation entirely beyond repair! I favor her? She has you eating from the palm of her hand! Gods be good, had I ever taken the tones with my father that she takes with you-,”

“I take her as seriously as one should take an excitable ten year old,” Duncan says calmly. “But she loves attention of any sort, be it good or bad, and that is all she gets from you. Aemon, on the other hand-,”

“Do not tell me I ignore our son!”

“A little praise, the barest hint of pride in him might help matters,” Duncan says over her outraged exclamation. “He knows he does not measure up to your expectations, and he fears he never will. You will only push him further and further away from what you want-,”

“What I want? Tell me, then, how terrible is it to want him to come into his seat sure of himself, and strong-minded, and unflinching- he’s always cringing and complaining about this and that, he barely makes conversation with anyone other than you or his sisters, other boys tease him-,”

“Argella!” Duncan groans loudly and tosses the puzzle box aside. “Need I remind you our son is eight! He has plenty of time to form his own mind and character, but that will never happen with you- or my father, or my mother, or even me- breathing down his neck, chastising and criticizing his every move. We need to let him have a childhood. My father has years left in him. I am not an old man. He will have plenty of time to prepare for the throne.”

Argella slaps her palm against her dressing table in frustration, but instead of shouting and insulting, as she would have a decade ago, she simply exhales and glowers darkly at her husband. Duncan stares back, unruffled. “Come to bed,” he says. “You’re exhausted. And you should be pleased to hear that the Lannisters have agreed to send their cold little shit of a firstborn back to King’s Landing with us.”

She stands up and makes her way over to the bed, lying down disgruntledly next to him. They do share a bed some nights, even when it is not in an attempt to produce a second son, for were anything, gods forbid it, to happen to Aemon, there would be at worst, war, and at best, another Great Council called to determine who Duncan’s heir ought to be, for Jae and Rhaelle both have sons as well now, and Maegor is a strapping young man, newly knighted and as fair to look upon as his mother. But as far as ‘come to bed’ is concerned, it usually means lying beside each other and having hushed conversations or arguments; they are both very used to the sound of each other falling asleep by now.

“And you think I am too harsh on children,” she mutters. “Aemon is a poor little boy, but young Tywin is a cold little shit, is that it?”

“Tywin Lannister is not my son. I never pretended to be fair,” Duncan points out, then admits, “A man like Tytos Lannister sows angry sons with much to prove. His bannermen mock him to his face and he permits it. That Tywin will come into his seat with far too many grudges, and if his father keeps up the drinking and feasting, he’ll be young enough to go about settling them bloodily.”

“There’s plenty of cantankerous old lords out there as well, not just bloodthirsty young ones.” Argella yawns. “If the boy someday wants to hack off a few hands and burn a few keeps to restore order, well, better his men doing the rough work than ours. Your father tires of sending Kingsguard tramping out here to settle things for the Laughing Lion.”

“He’s cold,” Duncan says tiredly. “That boy. I’ve seen it before, you know. In orphans out on the street in Flea Bottom, fighting over scraps of food. They’d stab each other to death for a loaf of bread or a fresh cat or dog to roast on a spit. This boy’s been cosseted in silks and lace since birth, never gone hungry or wet or cold a day in his life, and he’s got the same hungry look they have. Did you see the way he was looking at his father over dinner the other day? Like he’d like nothing more than to put a knife in his gut.”

“You read too much into these things,” Argella swats him lightly on the shoulder; he mutters a complaint all the same. “So he doesn’t much like his father. Nor would you, were Tytos your sire. The man’s amiable enough, I’ll grant him that, but he’s no sharper than wool and half as effective. Thank the gods the children seem to have gotten their mother’s wits. Do you think it is easy thing, for a boy that young to see his family name dragged through the mud like this? The Lannisters used to be held in such great esteem. Now they can barely collect their taxes on time. Their roads are in disrepair. Rough men run wild over their lands, poaching and raping. Jeyne Marbrand tries her best to keep the ship righted, Seven bless her, but one woman can only do so much.”

“I wonder, could you not grant our son the same clemency and understanding you give a boy who nearly sprained Rhaenys’ wrist,” Duncan says dryly.

Argella starts. “Her wrist? She seemed fine earlier-,”

“It’s gone purple and swollen. If you hadn’t walked in when you had she’d have it in a sling, and he might be missing a few teeth. You know what Rhaenys is like when she’s riled. Aemon’s knees were skinned to shreds as well, he shoved him so hard to the floor. Nine years old, the Lannister boy is. You wish we had a son like that? Knocking around little girls and boys a head shorter than him? Aemon’s flighty and timid, aye. But at least he’s got a good heart underneath it all.”

The bruises on Rhaenys’ wrist have faded and Aemon’s skinned knees have scabbed over by the time they leave the Rock, but the looks Duncan gives young Tywin are no less hard. Argella is polite with the boy, but never leaves him and the other children alone together. If Tywin Lannister was sad to leave the only home he has ever known, he made no great display of it, although he hugged his mother tightly in a brief glimpse of childish affection before leaving, and patted his sister on her head of golden curls when she began to wail for him to stay with her. Tytos clapped his son on the shoulders, praising his stiff upper lip, and Tywin flinched away from his father’s touch as if stung or smelling something foul. The Laughing Lion didn’t appear to notice the distaste. 

They make good time through the western mountains, although Duncan keeps guard for hours every night alongside the sixty goldcloaks and thirty Lannister men who make up their escort, and Argella is careful to never let the children wander far. They don’t make camp along the Gold Road when they can avoid it, and spend three days and nights as guests of House Lydden at Deep Den, which is really more of a series of dimly lit interconnected tunnels and passageways than a proper castle, if you ask Argella, although of course no one does. The children have a beast of a time exploring the nearby waterfall, though, and Argella throws propriety to the wind to go cliff diving with them just the once, as the last time she dove off any cliffs, it was with Ellyn at the great waterfall behind Rain House.

Rhaenys clings to Duncan’s bare and tanned back as he dives first, then Aemon and Elaena follow, clutching hands tightly. Argella exchanges a bemused look with an uncertain Tywin before she jumps after them, and is pleasantly surprised to see the blonde boy plummeting down after her, not about to be shown up by some Targaryens, when she surfaces, sputtering for air. Baela plays on the lake shore with a maid, building a castle out of damp sand and chattering away gaily about seeing a wild boar in the tree line, searching for nuts and grubs to eat, Argella assumes.

After Deep Den the mountains fall away, and the land around them is open and sparse once more, woodlands and golden plains, the sky a bright blue overhead. Argella’s spirits rise considerably; it is a fairly easy and quick journey onward towards the Blackwater after this, and the capitol’s health seems restored, by account of the last ravens they received while at Deep Den. There are no inns nearby to stay at, but the children hardly mind, and she knows Duncan is as happy as ever to be on the road, swapping stories of the last Blackfyre rebellion and other skirmishes with Harbert and the other soldiers around him, a different child sitting in front of him in the saddle every hour. Argella spends more time in the wheelhouse than on horseback, but the children don’t complain about having somewhere soft to nap when they are tired of the march east.

They’re about ten days out from the Blackwater Rush, Argella estimates, when they make camp one night in a grassy meadow surrounded by a green grove of trees. It makes a very pretty picture indeed, especially when the fireflies come out at night, bobbing and drifting in gentle glowing motions across the long grass, and the sky is full of bright stars above them. Duncan is pointing out the different constellations to an entranced Elaena, while Argella nurses Baela, who is newly two and still takes a breast, and Rhaenys and Aemon dart about in the grass, trying to catch fireflies, Tywin reluctantly trailing them as if embarrassed to be seen doing something so explicitly youthful and pointless.

“Mumma,” Baela says when she is done nursing. “Piggy back today.”

“What, sweetling?” Argella says distractedly, as she adjusts her loose summer gown. “You saw a wild piggy again, is that it?”

“Big piggy,” Baela chatters happily, beaming. “In the trees, Mumma. Waved at me!”

“Oh,” says Argella, because now that Baela speaks, she speaks about all sorts of things, dragons and grumkins and snarks and little creatures skittering about here and there, and people too, princesses and knights and bears and wolves she invents to be her first friends, as most children do, many of them based off her wooden toys or soft rag-dolls. “Is that a new friend? Master Piggy?” She goes rooting through the bag at their feet, full of Baela’s things, and pulls out a little wooden figurine of a farmyard pig, curly tail and all. “Here he is, love.”

“Father!” Aemon is shouting back to Duncan, who has hoisted Elaena up on his shoulders to get a better look at the night sky above them. “Rhaenys isn’t listening again! She’s went further than you said we could!”

“You rat!” Rhaenys shrieks distantly back at him. Argella can faintly make out Tywin’s pale head of hair, moving through the meadow, the grass up to his waist. Something is glowing in his palms, held tightly together.

“I caught one!” he cries out, unbidden, then immediately clamps up, as if he hadn’t meant to say it aloud at all. Aemon comes dashing back over to him, all thoughts of telling on his sister forgotten. 

“Let me see!”

“Gyles, send her back over here,” Harbert is calling over in exasperation to the nearest sentry, stationed near the treeline where Rhaenys has wandered in pursuit of a stubborn clump of fireflies. There is no immediate response, and Argella stands up, Baela on her hip, to inspect Tywin’s proud conquest of one particularly large firefly, frantically attempting to escape the cage of his skinny fingers.

“Piggy!” Baela says again, right in Argella’s ear, but she seems to have dropped the toy. “That’s the third one you’ve lost this week,” Argella scolds, knowing they’ll never find it now.

“No, Mumma. Look!” Baela is tugging insistently on her hair. Rhaenys shouts; she must have finally caught one. 

Argella looks, and sees for an instant, in those trees that suddenly seem far too near to them, a helm crudely carved in the visage of a pig, squealing in silent glee, illuminated by the glow of a dead sentry’s torch. There is fresh blood flecked across the shining metal. Rhaenys is stumbling back, screaming, and the fireflies have vanished. Harbert unsheathes his greatsword with a muffled curse, shouting for reinforcements. The Pig raises an axe, and Argella screams, “DUNCAN, RHAENYS!” as one lit arrow, then another, plows it way into the soft dirt and long, dry grass, and the treeline comes alive with men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so we might end up with closer to 10 chapters because I didn't anticipate spending so much time introducing the next generation here, but it is what it is. This chapter sets up the start of the Rebellion of the Rat, the Hawk, and the Pig, three individuals who were last heard about in Westerosi history as having assaulted Princess Aelora (the elder sister of Daenora) at a masked ball, leading to her suicide shortly thereafter. That was at least thirty years prior to the time of this chapter, 251 AC, so do I think these are the exact same guys? Doubtful, but names have power, and the new Pig has obviously chosen his for a reason.
> 
> Next chapter will obviously be going into greater detail about this rebellion and the major events of it, which are all 100% made up by me, as we know next to nothing about it canonically. Not terribly concerned about the historical accuracy or realism in this portrayal of a rebellion, since this is my 'kick my feet back and just have fun' fic. Suffice to say for now that, it's a very hot, very dry summer that started with some really bad weather and a plague that has just wrapped up in the Crownlands, there's some general unrest/unease in the air, and the Targaryens are divided geographically (Rhaelle is married and at Riverrun, Jaehaerys and Shaera have taken up residence at Summerhall with Jenny, her crew of oddballs, and their kids, Duncan and Argella are traveling, etc). 
> 
> Other general notes:
> 
> 1\. I made a mistake in earlier chapters and mentioned Tytos Lannister as ruling in the West prior to when his rule actually would have begun, but whatever. The point is that the Lannisters are not at all feared at this time, his banner-men mock and defy him to his face, his wife's not thrilled, and the kids are not alright. My intention is not to make Tywin come across as the spawn of Satan, but to portray him as the troubled kid that I think he probably was. Is he Proto-Joffrey? No. Is he a 'sweet kid'? Absolutely not. Is Rhaenys a 'sweet kid'? Hell no. 
> 
> 2\. Duncan and Argella in the year 251 AC have four children: three daughters and a son. They are actively attempting to conceive a second son, because as Argella notes, Targaryen rule of law decrees that women cannot inherit the Iron Throne, so if anything were to happen to Aemon before he can marry and also sire a son, it's going to be a mad toss-up for who should inherit the Iron Throne. Daeron? Jaehaerys and then Aerys? Rhaelle's son? Maegor? Duncan and Argella's children are as follows: Rhaenys, aged 10, Aemon, aged 8, Elaena, aged 5, and Baela, aged 2. Only Elaena really has the 'traditional' Targaryen looks, as the other three are all dark-haired like their mother and father. 
> 
> 3\. Argella may have improved in terms of her relationship with both Duncan and Ellyn (as in, she and Duncan have something like a friendship now and even feel comfortable sleeping in the same bed, and her and Ellyn see each other quite often at court) but she is far from a perfect mother. She constantly pushes Aemon to 'toughen up' and is very critical of what she sees as his weaknesses; he's socially awkward and very dependent and indecisive, he's emotional, he prefers animals to people, etc. Duncan points out that even though she constantly argues with Rhaenys over her behavior, she still favors her eldest daughter over her son in terms of attention/praise. 
> 
> 4\. Duncan is obviously a very 'easygoing' father by Westerosi standards; he spends a lot of personal time with his children and is generally quite forgiving and accepting of their mistakes or misbehavior. He wants them to have as 'normal' of a childhood as possible for princes and princesses (although his view of 'normal' is very skewed based on his own upbringing). But he also leaves a lot of the actual 'hard work' of parenting to Argella, which doesn't exactly make it easy for her to have a very positive relationship with her kids, since she has to be the harsher parent. In contrast, Argella views Jae and Shaera as essentially being the 'weird alternative parents' of House Targaryen, as in, they raise their kids at the isolated Summerhall around Duncan's mistress and her court of people that Argella feels are potentially dangerous 'oddities and freaks'. 
> 
> 5\. Supposedly the Rat, the Hawk, and the Pig were initially called such because they first appeared at a masked ball, and those were their masks. The current trio wear helms bearing those animals instead, so the Pig's helmed head is literally a squealing Pig. In true horror movie logic, the Pig is first spotted by an eagle eyed toddler, who assumes he is an imaginary friend come to life just for her.


	6. I walk across the bridge toward the safety of high ground

For a moment the world hangs in a perilous tilt in Argella’s eyes, similar to how it did when she watched Ellyn’s ship leave Dragonstone or when she was giving birth to Elaena, the roughest of her four labors, and everything seemed to still and all sound was muffled beyond the pounding of her heart and her breath rasping in her throat. Then it clashes down again, and she is standing, frozen in shock, her youngest in her arms, watching a horde descend on them from the trees, watching the meadow come alive with fire, licking and leaping from place to place.

“Get back to the wheelhouse and bolt the door shut,” Harbert barks at her, all sullen deference after a lifetime of being her baby brother and then a Kingsguard forgotten. He sounds like Ormund, he sounds like their father, and it is easy to forget that he is only one-and-twenty, that he has only been a knight for a few years, and worn the white cloak for even less. Argella does not move, gaze flying from place to place, as if she could snatch up her children with her eyes alone. 

“DUNCAN!” she screams again, and her husband pivots and in one nearly graceful motion tosses Elaena from his shoulders to the ground; she rolls over, crying but unharmed as he unsheathes his own sword, and Argella thanks every god she can think of that Duncan is the practical sort to never roam out of doors without a swordbelt-

“Run to your mother!” he yells at their daughter, who scrambles to her feet and runs, sobbing, until she reaches Harbert, who urges her on as another hail of arrows hits. Their guard is reforming in a wide circle around them; everywhere Argella looks she sees black and red as Targaryen and Lannister men-at-arms group up, and as Elaena reaches her she spurs her on towards the wheelhouse, but she is not going anywhere until the rest of the children-

Aemon is petrified, standing stock still in the grass, unmoving, watching the burning arrows pierce through the night sky. Tywin is beside him, and as Argella opens her mouth to scream again, and Duncan and Harbert lead the charge towards them and Rhaenys, suddenly they both vanish, then stumble back up a few moments later, and she realizes that Tywin must have tackled him to the ground, an arrow narrowly missing Aemon’s head in the process. “RUN!” she screams, and she would run to them, but she has a toddler in her arms, and all she can do is watch and wait, faint with terror, until finally, finally, they break free of the meadow and onto beaten down ground.

She looks for Rhaenys, hoping to see her running after them, but the men have closed ranks again after allowing the boys to get by to the temporary safety of the circle, and she can’t make out anything in the dark. The pitter patter of arrows hitting shields is an unfamiliar rhythm she does not want to learn, and the screams of men are even worse. She wants to pick up a sword and hack at something. She wants to breathe fire. She wants to melt the Pig’s ugly leering helm down and feed it to him until his throat constricts with molten iron. Instead she ushers the children back to the wheelhouse, clambers in after them, and locks the door.

The wheelhouse is small, and stuffy, and not really meant for four young children and one grown woman. Most of the time only she and Baela sleep in it at night; her children think it much more amusing to spread out blankets and quilts on the ground or crawl into a tent besides their father or uncle. Rhaenys will stay up half the night giggling with Elaena, or worse, scaring Aemon with some gruesome tale of robber knights and great beasts prowling the woodlands looking for little princes to devour. Aemon, guileless boy he is, believes her each and every time. Rhaenys. Rhaenys who is out there, not in here. Argella can’t breathe for a few moments, then forces herself to calm by looking at her children’s terrified faces. Tywin’s is blank and smooth, more with shock, she thinks, than some unnatural calm. His shoulders are heaving slightly, though.

“You saved Aemon’s life,” she tells him. “House Targaryen owes you a great debt, my lord.” With any other child, she doubts that would even register. He blinks, then gives the tight little nod of a man, not a boy. But had his mother raised him any different, Aemon might be dead. Elaena is weeping freely, Aemon is trembling, and Baela is too young to understand what is happening, although as the sounds of battle outside grow louder she begins to whimper and cling to Argella’s skirts. 

“Want Papa!”

“Papa’s outside,” Argella says, not just to Baela, but to the others as well. “He’s keeping us safe. He’ll be back soon.” Her voice sounds hard and flat, not comforting, as it ought to. Motherhood has never come easy to her. Pregnancy, birthing children, that always was simple enough; she was and remains young and fertile, even with Elaena’s birth there was never any genuine concern that she might not recover or be gravely injured, but motherhood? 

Some women loathe babes, but Argella always found those the easiest. Infants and babies and toddlers, they are simple enough. They cry, they eat, they sleep, they shit themselves and need to be changed, they drool down your front and pull your hair or nose or ears. But there are nursemaids for the worst of it, and even when they are naughty there is no real sense of struggle or tension, at least not for her. 

Once they are a little older, once they can speak clearly and reason and argue back fiercely, that is where it becomes difficult. Argella knows she was not an easy child, but when it mattered, she was an obedient one. She got into all sorts of mischief, true, but she still sat obediently for her lessons with her mother or septa, she wore the dresses she was told to wear, she let her hair be arranged, however long it took, she bathed when told to, she smiled and sang or played the bells for their guests, and she did as her mother and father bid her. 

When she was told she would go to court and someday wed the crown prince, she thanked them eagerly, happily, and even then, as a girl, when she grew sad or anxious or thought of Ellyn, she was still prepared to do as she was told. She wanted to please them, innately, for she was their only daughter and the real hope of their house, for all that Ormund was a good and proper heir. 

Her children do not want to please her. Well, perhaps Aemon does, as Duncan likes to remind her, but if there is anyone they seek to please, it is their father, and that is because Duncan offers them a queer sort of friendship and trust that is completely improper. Duncan believes he can be both their father and their little comrade, their confidant, their ally. It is impossible. It would be impossible were they the pettiest of lords, and it is certainly impossible when he shall someday be king. 

As they seek to please him, to make him laugh and smile and tell them stories and sing to them, he seeks to please them, in his own way. He wants them to like him. He wants them to feel they can be honest with him. It is the same flaw that his father possessed, and Aegon learned his lesson too late. He can no longer be considered a friend to any of his children, but that fond yearning to be held in their high esteem is still their, even with Betha’s harsh tempering of it. 

So perhaps she is a poor mother, perhaps they are poorly behaved, which her mother would willingly attest to, were they not prince and princesses, and perhaps it is her fault. The children reflect the mother, Septa taught her. A lady who could not manage her household was a lady who was mocked and ridiculed behind her back. One should always have their offspring firmly in hand, particularly their daughters, who it was only proper that the mother should discipline, and not the father. And mayhaps that it simply what it is. She is a good mother to babes, a poor mother to children. And a poor comfort at that, for Aemon has begun to cry as well now, high and breathy, and Elaena is still sobbing, face spotting red and blotchy, and Baela is still begging for her papa.

“Be quiet,” Tywin says, and then a little louder, “Be quiet!” and Aemon hiccups a pause in his tears, Elaena wipes at her eyes, and even Baela falls momentarily mute. 

Pretending she is not in the least grateful to a nine year old, Argella leaps on this opportunity, and says in a slightly gentler tone, “We need to be calm and quiet. Crying isn’t going to help anyone. Your father and Uncle Bert are trying to protect your sister and keep the outlaws away from us. Do you think they’re crying?”

Elaena shakes her head. 

“No,” says Argella. “They are being brave and doing their duties. You are of House Targaryen. It is your duty to be brave and strong for one another. No more tears. Dragons do not cry.” She rubs soothing circles in Baela’s back as she says this. “These men were very foolish to attack us. They are outnumbered and poorly trained. We have always been prepared for something like this.” None of that is strictly true, but these are the things you tell your children to keep them you all from going mad with fear. “They are all going to die now, and the ones who live will be put to death for daring to attempt to harm us.”

“Will Grandfather kill them?” Aemon finally manages to ask.

“Yes,” says Argella. “They will hang.” Aegon has always insisted on overseeing any and all executions, be it for heinous or more mundane crimes. She cannot say she holds the man in high regard, but she respects him for never having it done out of his sight and earshot. He is always present, he always hears the last words, he always gives the command himself, never delegating or avoiding his duty there. Betha is often present as well, standing at the base of the throne, refusing a seat as if to honor the soon to be dead. 

“They shouldn’t hang,” Tywin speaks up again, to her surprise. Argella glances at him. “They should suffer,” he says pointedly, and she sees what Duncan saw, the hunger. This is a boy who has been waiting a very long time to see anyone suffer, and who cannot stand to wait much longer. Lord Tytos is notoriously forgiving, after all. Executions at Casterly Rock are very rare, and even then, done far away from their happy, lazy lord’s joyous court. “They shot flaming arrows at us, so they should die that way.”

“That’s not what Grandpapa will do,” Elaena sniffles. “If you’re a low person, you get hanged, and if you’re a high person, you get your head chopped off, right Mother?”

“That is the custom, yes,” says Argella. She will never have the opportunity to sentence anyone to death, so she has never wasted much time thinking on it. Father taught Ormund that justice was meant to be done regardless, not because of. That is, you did not hang a man because you were angry he’d stolen from you, even if you were very angry and had every right to want him dead. You hung a man because the law said that a two-time horse thief hanged, and the law was not meant to care whether you were angry or didn’t care about the horse or even if you felt sorry for the man. 

“Otherwise,” he’d once said, with the slightly rueful sort of look that implied he was speaking from personal experience, being a man of tremendous anger when roused, “every man could make his own justice according to his tempers, and we’d all be running around like chickens without heads. It’s meant to steady the wrath and strengthen the meek, not change with every passing lord or king.”

Of course, a horse thief is different from a killer, or a child-killer, or a raper, or a traitor. Argella cannot say what she would do then. She does not want to say what she would do. It would only frighten the children. They all fall silent, listening, waiting. Argella knows that were that circle of shields to break, were the outlaws to come streaming in, there would be a great roar that would go up, and she would have moments, not minutes to get the children out. The wheelhouse is just that, a little wooden house at the moment, the horses unharnessed, the driver absent. They would have to all jump out and run on foot, and like or not, be picked off very easily. 

If these men are openly attacking royalty, she does not think they have much to lose, and this does not seem like a kidnapping attempt. They mean to kill them, and it might be quick or it might be slow. If she had to beg for the children’s lives she would, but it would not do much good. If she had to sacrifice herself for the chance of them escaping, she would and will do so. Aemon is big enough to carry Baela and still run. Tywin could help Elaena along. They might be able to slip off and hide in the dark. She certainly could draw some attention to herself, stall for time. She thinks about the Pig’s axe slicing through her neck, hacking it off in one smooth movement. She thinks about Rhaenys lying in a bloody heap on the ground, then pinches the thought away. No. No no no. Not her girl. No. 

Duncan will have reached her first. Duncan is no legendary swordsman, but he is a knight, he keeps in good practice, he is fast and strong, and in good shape for a man of thirty, slightly past his prime. He will get to her first. That is his one and only duty in this moment, to protect his daughter. What else is the point of having a knight for a husband? Had she been wed to Jaehaerys instead, she would have given up hope already. Jae was knighted as well, albeit not until two-and-twenty, but weapons and horses have never been his passion. He has no real vigor in the training yard or in tourneys, and only participates at Shaera’s urging. He is no sniveling coward, but he is not what anyone would call courageous and bold, either.

The waiting goes on and on. Once or twice she hears arrows thudding into the ground nearby, smells smoke, but the wheelhouse never catches light, to her relief. The Targaryens of old might have occasionally believed they could walk through fire unharmed, but generations of accidents, diseases, and death have done anyway with any notions of invulnerability. Dragons could and were killed by ordinary men, and so were their riders. 

Eventually it quiets. Baela has nodded off in her lap, to her shock, but then again, her youngest has always been a heavy sleeper. The rest of the children are still wide awake and restless, looking between her and the locked wheelhouse door. Argella peers out one of the windows into the dark, but can’t make out anything useful beyond the vague shapes of men moving and speaking in low tones, and the distant sounds of hoofbeats. She sucks in a breath, roots around in the compartment under the seat, and pulls out the small knife kept there as footsteps draw nearer. Argella slides Baela’s drowsy form off her lap and onto Elaena’s, tells the boys to get behind her in a hushed whisper, and puts herself squarely between them and the door. There’s no space to hide, and she can’t maneuver very well in a gown, but she has to try, whether or not it is the last thing she does.

The door rattles, and a familiar voice says wearily, “Argella, open up.” It’s Duncan; she nearly cries out in relief, then sets down the knife and unbars the door. He’s standing slouched before her, Rhaenys in his arms; wan and pale and covered in dirt and ashes, but very much alive. “Thank the Seven,” Argella exclaims, all but tearing her from Duncan’s arms; her daughter says nothing, only silently latches onto her like a vise, as if she were a little girl of five or six again, not ten and nearly a lady.

“Papa, are you alright?” Elaena asks in a small voice, and Argella looks up from smelling Rhaenys hair to see him leaning heavily against the door-frame, every muscle tense. There’s a dark stain on his right shoulder, and its spreading. 

“Duncan,” she says sharply, “how bad is it? How long have you been bleeding-” 

She holds onto Rhaenys with one arm and reaches the other hand out to him, but he’s already sliding down onto the dirt with a quiet moan. “Father!” Aemon cries out, and Elaena shrieks. 

“Harbert!” Argella sets Rhaenys down and scrambles out of the wheelhouse; Duncan is conscious, barely, and she tries to check his breathing with her fingers. “Harbert!”

“My lady!” A boy comes rushing up to her; it’s one of the squires, her cousin Alys’ son, who can be more than eleven. “My lady, the outlaws were routed, but the Pig got away-,” he is babbling nonsense. Argella resists the urge to slap him- not in front of the children- and instead gives him a good shake. “Get Maester Clement. My husband’s wounded. Are we still under attack?” It doesn’t sound like, but there are corpses everywhere she looks, and the smell of death and burnt grass and shrubbery lingers heavy in the air.

“No, my lady, but the Pig-”

“Get the maester and my brother, now!” she shoves him away from her; he stumbles, rights himself, and runs off. 

It is nearly an hour later until she learns that getting Harbert anywhere will prove quite impossible for some time, as he was goaded into single combat with the Pig while Duncan was pulling their daughter onto a horse and fending off three different men, and lost an eye for it. Both he and Duncan will live, and Rhaenys by some godly intercession went unharmed aside from a bad knock to the head and some cuts and bruises, but this was not the quick skirmish it ought to have been. She was wrong. 

These men were trained. Many of them were mercenaries. And they had the numbers to pose a genuine threat as well; there were fifty of them and they cut down thirty of Duncan’s men in the span of an hour. The shield wall almost broke twice. The Pig is strong as sin and near as ugly; he took off his helm to let Harbert see his face after taking out his left eye with one slash of his axe. That is not a man who sounds at all concerned about being hunted down and caught. This cannot be the end of it. Reinforcements from Deep Den and any other holdfast within reach of riders arrive by dawn, to escort them along to the Blackwater Rush to take boats down to the capitol, but Argella is not as soothed as she should be.

This was better than it could have gone, but that does not mean this is how it should have gone. They are Targaryens. This is a time of peace and general prosperity, aside from the recent plague and the bad weather. Yes, outlaws and bandits run rampant across the Westerlands, but usually up in the mountains and up and down the coast, not this far east on the Gold Road. And these men weren’t looking to steal anything. She feels as though she’s stumbled into some odd, ludicrous dream. She is a Baratheon. Duncan is a Targaryen. She is married to a prince. This is not- she is not supposed to feel this sort of fear, not unless they are at war. That is one of the many luxuries of her position, her right to freedom from fear. Fear of violence, at any rate. Other women worry about their children being stolen or murdered or hurt. Not her. That is not for her. She is not supposed to have to fear that sort of thing, because they, after all, are Targaryens, and no one rises up against a Targaryen unless they are a fool, a madman, or a Blackfyre. 

The remainder of the journey back to the capitol is a long and tense one. They don’t dare stay over anywhere for long, and without ready access to a rookery they have no real idea of what might be going on elsewhere. Was this a random, one-off attack, the work of some lunatic outlaw thinking to make a dramatic last stand against noble tyranny? Have there been other incidents? 

Maester Clement has a few birds with him, and they send off letters to the Red Keep and Summerhall, but there is no guarantee of a swift reply, or even a reply at all. Argella puts on a brave face for the children, including young Tywin, who does not, to her surprise, beg or demand to be sent back home. She’s not sure if it’s because he’s a young boy and this all seemed more exciting than dangerous to him, or if it’s because surviving an assassination attempt is something he truly considers preferable to spending time around his incompetent father and fretting mother. 

On the other hand, he is a remarkably composed little boy and she thinks it does her children good. No one could Tywin Lannister a ‘calming’ or ‘soothing’ childish presence, but there is something to be said for the numbing effects of coldness, she thinks, like pressing ice to an inflamed wound. Rhaenys vomits twice from her knock to the head, and the maester warns her to keep her awake for the next full day, even as her daughter complains of headaches and throbbing behind her eyes. Thankfully it seems to subside, and Argella nearly passes out herself from exhaustion and relief when she can finally let Rhaenys close her eyes. 

All Duncan does is sleep; he took a grave, if non-fatal wound to the shoulder, and had they not had the presence of mind to always bring one of the court’s many maesters along with them on all their travels, it could have easily become infected and poisoned his blood. Argella has never really considered widowhood since the first year of her marriage, when Duncan was a much-loathed irritation and a source of grievous injury to her pride. He still irritates her often, he still can rankle at her pride with his common ways and his common mistress, but she could never claim to loathe him, and the children adore him so. 

And Argella, for all her flaws, does love her children, and so some part of her must love Duncan too, even if it just the part of him that embraces little bodies so freely and kisses them on their foreheads and tucks them into bed every night. Her father never did such things. Her father was and is a great man, in her estimation, who loves his wife and raised his sons well, but he was never the father that Duncan is. Duncan is indulgent and passive and far too doting in her view, yes, but she could never accuse him of neglecting their children, or merely tolerating them. He is a loving sort. All these Targaryens are, to her bemusement, all irascible and obstinate as they can be.

They arrive in the capitol to riots, but thankfully there is more than one route up Aegon’s Hill, and they manage to escape the worst of it. Argella demands to know if the plague has seen a resurgence, unwilling to even let the children or her injured husband look out of the wheel house, but the captain of the goldcloaks who joins their escort insists that the city has been scourged of the summer sweats. The people are rioting- well, they are not sure why the people are rioting. It could be any number of things. It could be the fact that the king and queen are absent in their time of need and grief, visiting Rhaelle’s family in the Riverlands. It could be the food shortage from the Tyrells being slow to re-open the Rose Road. 

It could be any spurred on by any number of the street septons, half-mad beggars in brown, claiming that the poor start to what should have been another glorious summer was provoked by the continuation of Targaryen incest and depravity. Argella has heard it all. Prince Duncan keeps a vile sorceress as a paramour who seeks to cast down the Seven and restore the heathen old gods in their place. Prince Jaehaerys and Prince Shaera are condemned to burn in the seventh hell for their crimes against nature and their inbred spawn. Prince Daeron is a sword-swallower who must repent at once. House Baratheon, a wretched family descended from ill-fated bastardry, worships their deranged storm gods in secret and conspires to raise up dragons from the depths of the sea so that a New Valyria might be raised up to enslave the world. That sort of thing.

Argella does not hate the Red Keep, but she never counted herself so thrilled to ride through the gates into Maegor’s Holdfast until this very day. The children’s spirits seem temporarily raised by the comforting sight of home, scurrying around and chattering gaily, and Duncan insists he can walk unaided, although he does take her arm, and Tywin is gaping up at the high redstone walls around them, green eyes wide as forest pools, and then out comes several familiar figures, and Argella gapes freely at the sight of Duncan’s brothers. She hadn’t expected to see either of them.

Daeron is always off on some escapade with Jeremy, saving maidens or slaying wild boars or, more often than not, drinking one another under the table. Furthermore, she has it on good authority that he has been purposefully avoiding her since he and that little fool Olenna conspired to break their own betrothal. Daeron because he could not stand the sort of marriage Argella has, Olenna because she decided Luthor Tyrell, who now rules the entire Reach at the tender age of twenty three, was a far better source of power than a third-turned-second-born son.

As for Jaehaerys, well, since the births of their children he and Shaera have seldom left Summerhall. Both soured on court life after being the object of so much gossip and mockery, and furthermore, seemed intent on making the most of their time together after years apart while Jae was at the Citadel and Shaera was in Argella’s service. Argella will never admit to missing either of them, and firmly declared her intention to never set foot in Summerhall long ago, but some treacherous part of her is relieved to see Jae all the same, if only because he and Duncan have always been close, and he is generally a more cool-headed, sensible sort, when he is not off fucking his sister or buried in old tomes of ancient magic and propehecy. At least he usually thinks before he leaps, besides when it comes to his wife. But she takes one look at Jaehaerys and the dark, gaunt circles under his eyes and the unsteady tilt of his every move, and one look at Daeron’s lank hair and the grief tugging at the corners of his eyes, and she knows something is terribly, terribly wrong.

“Children,” she says sharply, before they can think to mob their uncles, “Show Tywin to his rooms, why don’t you? You remember, Aemon. At the end of the hall below your own. Run along- Rhaenys, you too,” she is quick to add. Her daughter throws her a resentful look, but for once does not argue. She even willingly takes Baela in her arms and herds the younger ones along, although Elaena has to be pulled by the hand, glancing back worriedly at her mother and father.

Jaehaerys and Daeron lead the way indoors in private to the nearest solar, the one in the chambers below the Queen’s Ballroom, where Argella’s wedding reception was held, so long ago. As soon as the door shuts behind them she helps Duncan to a seat, trying not to think that the Kingsguard who has taken up post outside the door is not Harbert. Harbert may be physically well, aside from the grievous scarring to his face and the missing eye, but he may never be fit to serve in that position again. It will take time for him to adjust to his lack of vision and to the shame of it all. She knows he feels ashamed, unmanned by it, and the more she fusses and reassures, the worse he will feel. 

“What happened?” Duncan finally asks through his teeth. “Where are the children, Jae? When did you get here?”

“Six days ago,” Daeron answers for him. Jaehaerys is silent, as if trying to work out what to say, or how to say it. 

Argella feels a sick, swirling sensation in the pit of her stomach, as she did whenever she had morning sickness. “Where is Shaera?” she asks. It is entirely unlike her to not be present when her brothers are about; she dotes on them all, even Daeron, who she rarely gets along with at the best of times. 

Jae looks up at her and Duncan, his violet eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

“Shaera is dead,” Daeron says, and every syllable is as if he were spitting it out like a thousand small bones lodged in his throat. “Summerhall was invaded by a man called the Rat and a small party of his men. They murdered several servants and eluded the guards before any alarm could be raised. They found Shaera while she was taking the children to the garden baths.”

Argella has heard of Summerhall’s famed bathhouse, enclosed in the lush gardens in the center of the summer palace. They say the water comes gushing out hot from the snarling mouths of a hundred stone dragons, and when the steam rises and billows you could pretend you were among the dragons of old in some Valyria cavern, swimming past their jeweled scales. She has heard of it, but does not understand. “That’s-” That can’t be right, surely. There must be some mistake. They must be wrong.

“No,” says Duncan, hoarsely. “No-,”

“She tried her best to protect them,” says Daeron. “Jae came in with the guards and found her… They found her in the water. Aerys and Rhaella were frightened, but unharmed. Shaera told them to hide in the dressing rooms, to buy them some time. Most of the Rat’s men were killed or taken alive. He escaped.”

“No,” says Argella, impatiently, because they have to be wrong, this is- this is wrong- “That isn’t possible. We would have heard. We came into the city this morning, and there was no- the bells should have been ringing, there should have been mourning assemblies, the High Septon-,”

“It hasn’t been announced yet,” Daeron says. “Court at present is very small. People left fearing the illness. The Hand felt it wise to delay- to delay the news until Father and Mother have returned-,”

“They don’t know?” Duncan blurts out, voice cracking neatly, and Argella feels the sudden urge to vomit, bile rising up in her throat. 

“It was quick,” Jaehaerys finally speaks. “She was still- she was still conscious when we came in, and the water- the water was red-,” It is not the good brother Argella knows, but a broken man speaking. “The water was all red,” he chokes off, and Daeron wraps an arm around him, head bowed. 

“Where are Aerys and Rhaella now?” Argella manages to ask, as Duncan begins to weep himself. 

Aerys and Rhaella are in the nursery. Argella looks in on them before going to find her own children, to tell them that they must begin their first mourning period, to tell them that their aunt, who always had sweets and smiles for them, who chided them for putting their elbows on the table at dinner or chewing too loudly, who was in equal parts infuriating and endearing, is gone. She was only five-and-twenty. Her children are the spitting image of her and Jaehaerys, of them all, playing silently on the floor, only six and seven. She does not recognize the nursemaid with them, who glances up before the children do. 

Argella stares at her. The girl, who is not really a girl but a grown woman, and she sees now, dressed too finely to be a servant, in midnight blue gown that passes for black from a distance, her hair unbound and falling in unruly coils to her waist, as if it sprung from her scalp all at once- She is liberally coated in freckles from years out-of-doors, and her hair is a rich auburn that burns even in the faint light of the softly lit nursery. She wears no jewelry, and her smile is sweet and sad all at once. Her lips are too plump and thick to be fashionable, her nose crooked, her eyes slightly too far apart, and there is a gap between her front teeth. 

Yet for all her common, mundane looks Argella knows who she is immediately, for while she has never the woman, she has heard of her so often, and seen several engravings and miniatures of her, one of which Duncan keeps in an iron locket he sometimes wears under his jerkin. The pictures did not do her justice. She is far from beautiful, but there is something striking to her all the same, not alluring or seductive but oddly tangible and potent. She is almost too real, her hair too vivid, her freckles too dark, her lips too pink, her eyes too hazel flecked with emerald green. 

Daeron and Jaehaerys did not mention her, but Argella supposes she ought not to be surprised, and in her grief all she can do is stare dumbly at the woman, who curtsies awkwardly and says in the slightly rolling accent of the riverfolk, “My lady, forgive my intrusion,” as if she were the one who had walked in, and not the other way around. The children have taken notice; Rhaella is clutching at her skirts, and Aerys regards Argella balefully from his hunched position on the rugs. 

Argella opens her mouth, finds her tongue, and replies hoarsely, “Well met, Jenny of Oldstones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big issue with this and upcoming chapters is how to make what is essentially a peasant/outlaw rebellion seem suitably threatening or to suggest that the stakes are bigger than just 'send the Kingsguard out to deal with it, call it a day'. So I came up with the idea of a concentrated series of attacks trying to basically wipe out (or at least narrow down) the current generation of Targaryens. Now as far as the ASOIAF wiki is concerned this rebellion was NOT the work of any Blackfyres, since it's not counted as a Blackfyre rebellion, no Blackfyres invaded Westeros at this time, none of them claimed it as part of their ongoing crusade against the Targaryen line. THAT SAID I find it a little suspicious all the same.
> 
> [warsofasoiaf](https://warsofasoiaf.tumblr.com/) whose blog I highly recommend had the following to say about the canonical Rat-Pig-Hawk Rebellion: 
> 
> “In 251 AC, however, it was a different matter. This was 14 years after the Fourth Blackfyre Rebellion but 9 years before the Fifth. That’s not auspicious at all for the Blackfyre cause, and is during the later years of Aegon V’s reign, well after Bittersteel had died. This leads me to believe that the Rat, Hawk, and Pig are taking on the legacy of successful outlaws, striking against the monarchy without having pretender ambitions. This was outlaws being outlaws, narratively weakening the Targaryen dynasty to allow Daeron to die out, and permit no other Targaryen pretenders so Jaehaerys II (and later Aerys II) to take power and set the stage for Robert’s Rebellion to settle behind Robert Baratheon, as the closest blood relation to the Targaryens, to have enough blood legitimacy to secure his reign so the original novels can have their stage set.”
> 
> Other notes:
> 
> 1\. Casualties thus far that we know of: Duncan and Harbert were both badly wounded. Rhaenys got a concussion and was very lucky to escape any worse injuries. Shaera was killed while trying to protect her children from the Rat. Aegon and Betha were in the Riverlands at the time, are returning to the capitol. Ton of riots going on. Shaera's death has not been publicly announced but rumors are likely spreading all the same. 
> 
> 2\. Tywin came through with that shoulder check and saved a future king. Ten minutes later he's passionately arguing for execution via flaming arrows. You win some, you lose some. Yes, Argella and Duncan could have sent him straight back to the Rock with an escort, but maybe they're hoping Tytos might get off his ass and commit some troops to something for once if his kid is with the endangered parties. 
> 
> 3\. Aegon V has the Riverlands and Stormlands on call now due to the successful marriages, whereas in canon his kids managed to alienate like what, at least four majorly powerful families from supporting his reign and political agendas? On the other hand, he's still only succeeded in 2 arranged marriages of said children. My point is I'm trying to do some set-up here for why the current Targaryens might end up going 'you know what? life would be a lot easier if we had dragons. if we had dragons we wouldn't have to worry much about outlaws, or angry lords, or riots in the city. if we had dragons we could probably have a much easier time ruling seven often unruly kingdoms. they might actually start thinking of us as being chosen by the Seven themselves again'. It doesn't make much sense if Aegon's rule is awesome and has no issues and then they decide to risk everything with some sketchy egg-awakening magic rituals. 
> 
> 4\. Jaehaerys didn't bring Jenny as a 'fuck you' to Argella or Duncan; he's broken with grief for his wife, he considers her a friend, she's good with the kids, and Summerhall is hardly considered 'safe' at the moment after being infiltrated by rebels. And I sort of needed Argella to actually meet the woman she considers a long-standing nemesis. We're going to see a big Targ family reunion next chapter, foreshadowing another dramatic family reunion later down the line.


	7. tossing small pebbles at random over your shoulder

The last funeral Argella had attended had been at Stokeworth, for Ellyn’s husband. She’d made that journey before they’d ever set off for the Reach or the Westerlands, alone, for once, ignoring the advice and demands of everyone that she not risk catching the sweats herself by traveling to Stokeworth for the service. Duncan had nearly commanded her to remain at court, and would have been well within his rights to. In the end he had conceded; as usual, his interest in goodwill between them had won out over his good sense. 

He should not have let her go; she could have sickened and died while she was there, or worse, carried the disease back with her and infected him or their children. But they had gone down the usual path of ‘what little I have ever asked of you, could you not allow me this one thing’, and while Duncan could have easily retorted that he had allowed her a great many things most husbands would not, and that she had in fact asked- demanded, really- quite a lot of him, beyond a wife’s usual meek inquiries- Of course, he had not. “Go,” he’d said, “before I change my mind, or my father gets wind of this. Promise me you’ll not touch any of them, and stay in the inn, not in the castle.”

And so she had promised and obeyed on both matters; she had not set foot inside Castle Stokeworth itself, only the lavishly appointed sept, and she had not embraced or bestowed kisses or mixed breath with any of the red-eyed and pale household. She had sat directly across the aisle from Ellyn at the service, and when they rose for the blessing Argella had understood there was no more than four or five feet between them. 

When the service had ended and Ellyn had left the sept first with her two tearful children, Argella could smell her perfume sharply and all but reach out and trail her fingertips down the back of black summer mourning silks, but- But she had not touched any of them, and even if she could have, well, it would have been unseemly.

Ellyn had been veiled, anyways, as many devout widows chose to dress themselves in the first week of mourning, and had only lifted the veil briefly, when they were standing back outside in the bright afternoon sunshine beside a burbling fountain, so she and Argella could speak. “They’re getting so big,” Argella had said with forced levity, for how else was one to behave when a man they’d loathed to their core was dead but the woman they loved with all their being was still sorry to see him go- 

Owen and Tanda both took after their father in build, tall and husky for their age, with plump, round faces and doughy hands and feet, but while Owen had his father’s blonde locks, Tanda had Ellyn’s raven black Morrigen hair, held back with a new ribbon as it curled around her red cheeks. “And they were so good during the service- Rhaenys pouts and sighs whenever we go, and Aemon nods off more often than not.”

“Owen misses him,” Ellyn had acknowledged tightly. “He’s already asking when we can come back to court.”

Even her hands were gloved; Myrish lace, light as a feather, really, but Argella had stared at the tiny hint of bare flesh between the ends of her draping sleeves and the gloves all the same, desperate for any sign, any spot unmarred by grief. How much was because it was expected of her, and how much of it was borne from genuine affection? She knew Ellyn had never loved him, true, but… She is still such a selfish thing, begrudging Ellyn any sense of sorrow for a man who did, in the end, give her two healthy babes. “You must tell him we eagerly await his return. He is quite the little swordsman already. It’s good for Aemon to have him around. Owen makes him braver.”

Ellyn had smiled, however faintly, at that, and Argella had drank in the sight of it greedily, as the breeze rustled their hair and the boughs of the tree above them. “That’s funny. You were the one who always made me braver, when we were girls.”

“Me?” Argella had nearly laughed aloud, only stopping herself when she realized how grossly vulgar it would seem to any onlookers. “Brave is not the word I would use. Wayward, perhaps. Obstinate. Temperamental-,”

“Nothing made you falter,” Ellyn had insisted. “Nothing daunted you. Even when- even when they began to whisper that you might wed into the royal line, you were so… so expectant. Eager to begin, like a squire at his first tourney. You always liked a challenge. I shied away from them. You embraced them. I would have… I was in pieces the week before my wedding. But you never cried at yours, not once.” There is no trace of resentment or anger, only a vague mixture of admiration and deep regret. 

Argella would have then smiled and waved it off and changed the subject, had they been ten years younger, had she still been that impetuous and self-absorbed child, so pleased at the thought that she seemed the perfect fit for a prince, that everyone thought her special, and poised, and effortlessly confident. Instead she’d said, “I did cry. That night, I... “ At Ellyn’s horrified look she’d felt herself redden, and say hurriedly, “not- not for anything Duncan did, or didn’t do, it was just… I felt terribly alone, after everything was said and done, and the feast was over, and I was in my marriage bed, and thinking of how my family would leave a week later, and you… you would already be gone…”

Ellyn had leaned a little towards her, and her gloved fingers had brushed against Argella’s bare knuckles, and they’d not truly touched, but felt touched all the same. “I could never really stay away,” she’d murmured, and then one of Argella’s ladies had been calling for her, saying it looked like rain, and she’d been right. Ellyn had gone away with her children back to that castle she’d been wed in and birthed two stillborn babes in and tended to her husband in and watched him die in, and Argella had gone back to the noisy, smelly inn and then swiftly onwards back to the capitol, for her own husband and children were waiting for her.

This funeral is different. Ordinarily, when a Targaryen has died, their body would be prayed over in the royal sept by the family alone, and they would then be shrouded and borne down to the Great Sept of Baelor on a litter surrounded by an escort of knights, septons, and septas. The High Septon would conduct a service for the entire city in mourning, the bells would be rung once again, and the litter would be piled with wood and oil before being set alight, traditionally by the widow, widower, or the eldest child. Under these circumstances, it seems foolish to risk transporting the entire family to one convenient location where they could be easily mobbed and attacked by the crowds. Shaera’s funeral service will be self-contained to the royal sept in Maegor’s Holdfast, and the pyre lighting will be conducted in the largest garden courtyard, at the very heart of the Red Keep. 

Aegon, Betha, and Ser Duncan the Tall return from the Riverlands five days beforehand. Rhaelle is not with them, although supposedly she put up quite the fight to not be confined to Riverrun with her husband and children. Argella thinks that was wise. It is terrible for her, of course, to not be present for her own sister’s funeral, but she is far safer behind the walls of Riverrun than risking anymore travel. On the roads, out in the open like that, no one is truly safe, and even with Aegon calling the banners of the Crownlands and Stormlands to confront the growing rumors of a host of outlaws, robber knights, and mercenaries gathering in the Kingswood, it seems best not to test fate. Even King’s Landing is not safe at the moment. The only thing they can truly trust in is the keep, the stones erected by Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel. 

Argella is used to putting her faith in castles, and not men. She is a Baratheon, after all. Their line only exists because of high stone walls said to be imbued with the magic of the Children of the Forest. Even so, even when they are outside before the pyre, she is conscious of the lines and lines of guards thronging the perimeter, watching silently, no doubt choking back coughs from the growing smoke. It fell to Jaehaerys to put the torch to the wood, but he could not, consumed with sobs of grief and fury, and after a few moments of this his father stepped forward behind him, took his arm as one might guide a child, and helped his son light his daughter’s pyre. 

The King and Queen had returned unharmed, but had a close call of their own near Stony Sept, where their party was beset upon by yet another marauding group of outlaws. This attack was quick as lightning, Ser Duncan, barely restored to his full strength and seeming to have aged a decade in a matter of months, claims. It was not the two-hour long onslaught that Argella and Duncan contended with, but a quick, probing assault that immediately pulled back when it became clear they were not going to reach Aegon without incurring serious losses. Betha claims a sole rider was watching them from the hills, all the while, like an enemy general spectating on his work. The Hawk, they’re calling him. So they have a Pig, they have a Rat, and they have a Hawk. The obvious reference is lost on no one. Argella was forcibly well-versed in what some would call ‘private family history’ after her betrothal to Duncan was formalized. The last two generations of Targaryens have been beset with illness, mishap, the accidental slaying of siblings, madness, and suicide. There is a reason for the unspoken ban on masked balls, after the tragedy of Princess Aelora. 

Jaehaerys weeps freely; Argella looks away out of both distaste and sympathy. She never built up the steady respect for him that she developed, however begrudgingly, for Duncan or even Daeron and Rhaelle, but she cannot mock him or loathe him at a time like this either. His children are all but mute; waifs in black staring up blankly at their father as he bows in grief. Aegon keeps a firm grip on his shoulder. Betha is motionless; she may as well be a statue veiled in black gossamer, straight-backed and rigid. Duncan’s aunt Rhae clings, tearful to her surviving sons, Mathos and Ardrian, who pats her back stiffly. 

Daella did not leave Tarth; the journey would have been far too long even at the best of times, but her sole child, Ser Tristan of Tarth, stands beside Daeron and Jeremy Norridge. Tristan is nearly six and a half feet tall, but shockingly babyfaced for a man near thirty, with white-blonde hair and deep indigo eyes. Argella remembers his wedding some years past, on that lonely blue isle. When this is over and done with, she wants his boy at court as well. Selwyn, she thinks he is called. House Tarth is hardly wealthy; they are paupers compared to the Celtigars; but there is something to be said for having acquired the title of Evenstar. Kings should have friends of honored bloodlines, not just rich ones. 

The funeral is never the difficult part. It is what to do afterwards. Aegon and Betha disappear back into their private quarters with Ser Duncan. At times the three of them seem a family all their own, one Argella doesn’t understand and has no wish to. What she does know is that for all of Aegon’s relations, for a very long time, well before he was ever king, the only man he truly considered a brother was Tall Dunk, and they say it was Tall Dunk whose blessing he sought when he fell in love with Black Betha, not his or her father’s, and it was Tall Dunk who he chose to name his firstborn after, not Maekar or Baelor or Daeron or any of the rest. 

Duncan, Daeron, and Maegor, whom Argella must continuously remind herself is not a boy anymore, go off somewhere with Jae in a show of solidarity, likely to drink all memory of this away, leaving Argella with Daenora and the children. The children are hungry and disagreeable, complaining of eyes still watering from all the smoke, even stoic little Tywin, so Argella decides they will take lunch out in the gardens. Her own children quickly seem to forget they were just at their aunt’s funeral at all, oblivious in the way the very young and old are- Elaena races around playing tag with Aemon, squealing with glee whenever she evades his hands, while Rhaenys rips out her pearl-studded hairnet and scuffs up her new slippers looking for one of the castle’s many tomcats. 

Aerys and Rhaella are more subdued, but Aerys quickly strikes up a conversation with Tywin, and Rhaella brightens when allowed to hold Baela in her lap. Argella has never particularly enjoyed the company of her niece and nephew; Aerys always seemed spoilt and high-strung, even when compared to her own children, while Rhaella was always shy as a mouse and twice as quiet, never far from her brother’s side. But she knows she will have to take a more active interest now; they can hardly be allowed to look to their uncle’s mistress as a model of feminine graces. Argella and Daenora sit together in silence while the food is brought out, then pick at their respective plates until Argella gives in and eats. The thought of death has never done much to ruin her appetites, and thinking of how it could easily have been Rhaenys they were mourning makes her more hungry, not less, in an attempt to smother the gnawing anxiety in her gut. 

“Rhaenys came to me last night, asking about Lady Jenny,” Nora finally says. Argella has not had the opportunity to speak to her alone in months and months, and the last time they did, it was somewhat of a falling-out, for all Daenora’s insistence that a match between Rhaenys and Maegor be taken into serious consideration. Argella has not even mentioned it to Duncan; they agreed privately that they would not think of such things seriously until Rhaenys had flowered, but she is concerned Daenora will or already has brought it up with Aegon. In the end, Aegon is still King, and as the head of the house he has the ultimate say on whom any of her children wed, not her husband. If he likes the sound of such a match, he could see Rhaenys ushered off to the nearest sept on the morrow, flowered or not. Princesses as young as five or six have been wed before, albeit usually in times of great unease or in the direct aftermath of war. 

It is not that Argella is necessarily outraged by the idea; Maegor is a cousin, and by all accounts an upstanding young man and a fine, honorable knight, nothing like his father. But he is a man. He is nineteen years old. Her daughter is ten. Even should Rhaenys not marry him until she were sixteen and of age, he would still be nearly a decade her senior. Argella recalls being six-and-ten. She fancied herself a woman already, wise to the ways of the world, adept at dealing with men and their whims. She was not. She was a child. She does not regret her marriage to Duncan, but it might have had a less hostile start had they both had more time to mature. She will not defend her petty behavior at the time, but he was far from the picture of even-tempered wisdom at nineteen himself. 

Rhaenys is a child. Argella does not even want to consider her being wed off, and to a cousin- she should never be lady of her own keep or lands unless Maegor is granted some, and it will certainly not be Dragonstone or even Summerhall. What will they give him? Harrenhal, that cursed abode? Some wretched little island? Some stretch of woodlands in the Crownlands? Rhaenys would be miserable. She would never forgive them for consigning her to a perhaps fruitful but ultimately quickly forgotten life as a minor Targaryen lord’s pretty little wife. She should be marrying into another great house, not necessarily her own. Valyrian blood is not the beginning and end of everything. 

“Argella?” She glances at Daenora.

Jenny, Argella thinks, and her chest tightens, in fury or unease she can’t be sure. To her credit, she had not descended into a screaming fit when unexpectedly brought face to face with her husband’s longstanding mistress. Nor had she slapped her, or clawed her across the cheek with her nails, or called for some guards to eject her from the Red Keep and into the nearest crowd of nobility-loathing peasants, as she might have done in some pleasant daydream. 

Instead Jenny of Oldstones has offered up a nervous, wavering little smile, and seeing the thunder on Argella’s face and the lightning rage crackling in her blue eyes, beat a hasty exit before things took an unfortunate turn. Aerys and Rhaella had then stared at her balefully as if Argella had dragged Jenny by the hair, kicking and screaming, from the room. She has not seen hide nor hair of her since, but that does not mean her name has not gone unspoken.

Why, just last night-

“She must have heard Duncan and I,” Argella says tightly. “I have told her a thousand times that this eavesdropping must end- she puts her siblings up to it as well-,”

“She wanted to know exactly what a mistress was,” Daenora cuts her off.

Argella stops, prickles with barely contain ire, and splits her peach neatly in half with her knife, resulting in a spray of warm juice across her fingers. “She very well knows what a mistress is. She’s seen animals coupling before. She is ten, not five. She knows what happens in a marriage bed and outside of it.”

“Just because she is aware does not mean she understands. She wanted to know when her father had taken a mistress and why.”

That baffles Argella. She has never for an instant thought that her children truly believed she and Duncan were in love the way other married couples might seem. Like Jae and Shaera. Her chest aches again. They try their best not to squabble in front of the children, to be sure, and on most days they are perfectly civil, even amiable with each other, and they embrace and dance together on occasion, go to bed together, but it is not as if their marriage was like that of Aegon and Betha’s. “And what did you tell her?”

Daenora exhales slightly, arching a pale eyebrow. “I told her that her father had fallen desperately in love with an unsuitable woman when he was but eighteen. I told her that he came to understand that he could not sacrifice his duty to the Seven Kingdoms for the sake of that love, and so he did not dishonor his betrothed nor her kin. I told her that he, and many men, could not bring himself to leave that woman behind, either, and so he established her with a different household, as is common, and visited her on occasion.”

Argella swallows around the uncomfortable tightness in her throat. Eventually, of course, she’d known whether she liked it or not, all her children would come to know exactly who Jenny of Oldstones was to their father. Eventually they would know the shame of it, and they would realize a great many things about their parents and their relationship, and they would come to terms with it as they pleased. She doubts it will ever affect their love for him; Duncan is not easy to hate, after all, and he has never put his mistress’ desires before their needs. She knows it may very well affect their love for her. 

It is not fair, it is not right, but that is the way of it, and that will always be the way of it. They will wonder why she was not enough, they will question whether she is such an unlikable, bullying shrew that Duncan felt he had no choice but to seek pleasure elsewhere, they will understand a great many things about men and women and who is to blame for what. She’d thought she’d made her peace with it long ago, but she was wrong. It still rubs her raw. She has to share Ellyn with Stokeworth, with her duties to her children, her goodfamily, but Jenny is all Duncan’s, and always has been, even more so now that they are finally together at court. She can only imagine Mother’s letters to her once word of this gets out. The Targaryens menaced once again by rebels and Duncan’s mistress at court at last. Florys Baratheon will be in a fine frenzy.

“Was she terribly upset by it?” she asks Daenora flatly. “I’d rather not… it’s not something I wish to discuss with her, but if you think she’ll go to Duncan-,”

“No,” says Daenora. “She was upset, I think, but she didn’t throw a fit or demand to see you or her father. She is growing up. I think it was a bad shock for her, to be confronted with it. She thinks the world of Duncan.”

“She thinks little and less of me with every passing year,” Argella snorts humorlessly.

“She thinks of you and your approval more often than you suppose,” says Daenora with a dry edge. “She seemed almost incensed on your behalf, if you ask me.”

“Rhaenys wants to fight everyone’s battles for them at once,” Argella dimisses that with a wave of her ringed hand, garnets glinting in the sunlight. “It is less about a desire to protect them and more about a desire to win. She loves her little victories.”

Rhaenys appears to have abandoned her search for the tomcat and is now bickering with Aerys and Tywin about something, her hands on her hips, the picture of indignant girlhood. She never got along well with Aerys to begin with, and Argella doubts that is about to improve, what with Tywin’s presence. He is looking between her and Aerys with great interest while Aerys curls his lip into a familiar little sneer and Rhaenys’ voice rises stridently. Aemon and Elaena are oblivious, still engrossed in their game, and Rhaella is watching them in a wistful manner, likely too shy to ask if she might join them.

“I used to watch Aelora and Aelor like that,” Daenora says after a moment, watching the children. “They were so much older than me- eleven when I was born. But always together. They were devoted to one another. I always wanted to be part of it, their conversations, their games. But I was just a baby, to them. And then they were wed,” she sighs, “and our father was quite mad, and our mother’s days were spent trying to wrangle him, and-,” she shrugs, an elegant little movement of her slender shoulders. She is still quite beautiful as she approaches forty, a true Targaryen flower of the court. Elaena might look quite like her as she ages. Argella tries not to feel insecure about it. She’s never doubted her looks before, she is about to doubt her childrens’. None of them are dwarfs, cripples, blind, or deaf. That is all that matters. 

“I was at that ball,” Daenora says. “I was six. My mask was a butterfly. I adored that mask. I wanted to wear it to bed at night so I could flutter around in my dreams.” Her thin lips quirk into a bitter little smile. “I was so excited. Aelora was still heartbroken over our brother, but she’d always loved balls. She was supposed to be a swan. My mother ordered a tiara made for her especially for the event. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. When they announced us to the court and we entered, every man in that room looked at her like she was the Maiden herself, widow or not. She smiled then. She hadn’t smiled in months, but she smiled then to see all those eyes upon her. Everyone knew who she was, of course, even with the mask.”

There is a long pause. “She did not deserve what happened,” Argella says. “It is the worst kind of injustice, that they were never caught. They should have died screaming.”

“She still had the mask on when they found her out in the gardens,” Daenora says mildly, as if she hadn’t heard Argella at all. “Tearing at her skin like she wanted to peel it off. I’d been ushered off to bed by then, of course. But everyone heard the screaming. It was worse then when my brother died. Gods, she wailed and wailed, and then it went terribly quiet, and I never heard or saw her again. She locked herself in her rooms, barely ate, refused to bathe. She was dead a week later. And now they come again,” she exhales slowly, “and my son will go to war against them.”

“It cannot be the same men.”

“The same in spirit,” Nora enunciates carefully, precisely. “Two women of House Targaryen have died by their hands. No man dared dream of raising a hand to Rhaenys or Visenya of old, or even Good Alysanne. Dragons were the gods’ gift to women, I say. I used to pray over the remaining eggs, beg the Seven to let one hatch for me.”

“They used to put them in the cradle,” Argella is relieved to be off the topic of Aelora and siblings wed to one another and masked balls. “But I think that time is over. Ellyn used to tell me magic was fleeing the world, that it could no longer abide with men’s lust for power. Had we a dragon, she would rather study it like a new species than use it for war,” she scoffs fondly. 

“They are power,” Daenora says, “Power given scales and wings and fire. And only the worthy could have hoped to tame them. And we are not worthy. Not our fathers, nor our grandfathers, nor our great-grandfathers. This would be over in a day’s time with just one dragon,” she raises a single digit. “But we have proven ourselves weak, and cowardly, and hapless. So perhaps a thousand, two thousand of our men will die, and the Blackfyres will laugh themselves silly across the sea, and it will never truly end.”

Argella dreams of dragons that night, which is very odd indeed, but when they roared a torrent of water and mist came roiling out of their massive mouths, not fire and flame. Yet they scoured the land around the city all the same, and in her dream she watched from a high tower window as the Kingswood flooded until only the very tops of the greatest trees were visible. The water sloshed over the city’s walls and pooled around the great hills of Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys, and for a thousand miles all she could see was an endless blue-grey horizon, glinting in the summer sunlight. The tops of houses floated by like rafts, and the people were ants in a puddle, fighting for dry land and air. And still the dragons circled overhead, snorting and snarling through the clouds, and raindrops fell with every echoing beat of their wings. 

Six days later Aegon Targaryen means to take his three sons and all the knights of his household and all of the assembled troops of the Crownlands and march them into the Kingswood to root out the rebel army. On the other side, Argella’s father will lead the might of the Stormlands, to catch them in a snare. She is not worried, because even if they take the worst of the rumors to be true, The Rat, Hawk, and Pig have perhaps eight thousand men, the vast majority of them untrained peasants promised lands and riches and knighthoods if they can only cut down the Targaryens to size, and force their way into the city. 

Aegon’s Master of Whisper claims this is being financed by Daemon III’s vengeful widow as a last ditch effort to bleed the current dynasty dry. Should they by some miracle succeed, the monarchy would be left weak and on the defensive, just in time for the few remaining pretenders to grab at the Throne once more. It would take more than a miracle for these rebels to somehow defeat fourteen thousand men coming down from the north and twenty thousand from the south, but Argella supposes the Blackfyres figure they have absolutely nothing left to lose.

She and Duncan have scarcely had time to speak with one another, between settling back in at court, the funeral, dealing with the children, and fielding a dozen incensed letters from Jeyne Marbrand, who is far from convinced of her precious boy’s safety at the Red Keep, and when they did make time to speak with one another, it was so Argella could attempt to shout down Maegor’s Holdfast once more. Argella wants Jenny gone. She does not care if they send her back to Summerhall or to Oldstones or even to Riverrun, so long as she is gone. Duncan refuses to consider it until the enemy has been dealt with, and claims it would be the height of disrespect to his brother to make such a demand of him when he is mourning his wife.

Argella had admittedly replied to this with the question of whether or not Jaehaerys was enjoying Jenny’s company beyond childcare, and how while she had always thought Duncan generous, she hadn’t thought that generosity extended to sharing his mistress with his younger brother. Duncan had gone stark white with rage, a sight that was equally satisfying and disturbing. That had been the last straw of any attempt at deescalation, and Daeron had eventually come in to tell them that the entire hall and the one below them was being kept up by the sounds of bellowing and furniture being abused. Now it is the evening before he is to depart, and seeing as he has never gone to war during the course of their marriage before, Argella still feels that perhaps some sort of apology is in order, however reluctantly given. He will not die- she refuses to consider such an outcome, unlikely as it is- but men need their courage in order to fight well, and so she swallows her pride, or at least takes a nibble out of it, and goes to his chambers.

“Good, you’re here,” he says, upon admitting her- she loathes the fact that scarcely a week after they shrieked themselves hoarse at one another, he has already forgotten all about it, while she still replays the argument in her head every night to lull herself to sleep. “I have a surprise for you.” He is remarkably at ease for a man who will go into battle on the morrow, but then again, this is Duncan. After near a month back at court, he is likely looking forward to sleeping under the stars once more. Her husband the vagabond. 

“What is it?” Argella asks warily, trying and failing not to scowl as she steps into the room. “Don’t tell me it’s pearls, Duncan.” She’d once complained about how much she detested strings of pearls being gifted to her due to a lifetime of growing up by the sea, how everyone assumed they were the height of fashion for a chaste and virtuous wife to a prince, how they were really the most dull and dreary jewelry in existence, how she would go mad draped in pearls, and Duncan had then proceeded to give her some for her next name day, which in his mind was a really clever jape, absolutely worth retelling over the course of multiple familial dinners.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Duncan vows, not very credibly. “Much better than pearls.”

The door to the next room creaks open, and Argella stops breathing for an instant when Ellyn steps almost shyly into the room. “You- she- Duncan, this is-,” she rounds on him. “The riots have only just died down, and you think to bring her into the city-,”

“It’s not all my fault,” Duncan protests, hands up in defense, backing away from her onslaught. “Ellyn wrote me begging to consider her paying a visit, she thought it’d do you a world of good-,”

“You wrote Duncan?” Argella barks incredulously at Ellyn, who nods, and then pounces on her.

“What about the children?” Argella manages to get out between being strangled by Ellyn’s skinny arms. 

“Happy at home with their grandmother and cousins, what about yours? May I see them? I’ve the loveliest little doll for Baela- does she remember me? I’ve not seen any of them in months, she was still a babe then-,”

“I’ve not seen you in months, you silly girl,” Argella rasps, and kisses her heatedly on the mouth. 

“Silly girl,” Ellyn jerks back, rolling her eyes and laughing breathlessly, “I’m four months your elder, Gella.”

“Only in age, never in spirit-,”

“I’ll go collect the menagerie,” Duncan says wisely, and leaves them to it. Argella later reflects that this is the most pointed rebuttal he could make to her fit over Jenny- she can hardly keep up the litany of complaints, accusations, and attacks on his morals when she has Ellyn here as well. 

She is also selfish enough not to care. She has Ellyn. She has her and Ellyn is here and she couldn’t care less whether the Kingswood combusts into flames around them, so long as Ellyn is here. It’s been far too long and far too terrible without her. It’s like when you’d no idea how thirsty you’d become after a long day out in the sun, at least not until you took that first sip of icy water. It shudders down her chest and licks her throat clean. Ellyn is here and no longer in mourning black, no longer veiled or secreted away, she is here and Argella breathes easily for the first time in weeks, drinking her in.

Ellyn is at her side when she and the other women and children are seeing the men off; Baela very much remembers her, and has snuggled into Ellyn’s dark hair while she holds her in her arms. Aemon clutches anxiously at Duncan’s sleeve until he’s forced to let go, and Elaena directs all her attention to Daeron and Jeremy, who are laughing and jesting as if they were going off on some fox hunt, despite their heavy armor. “One more!” she demands, and Daeron rolls his eyes, tosses back his long platinum blonde hair, scoops her up and throws her into the air before catching her. Elaena is laughing so hard she can scarcely breathe, and starts to gasp for breath when the ordinarily more stoic Jeremy pulls a quick face at her. 

Rhaella and Aerys are both crying as Jaehaerys clambers into the saddle; Aerys more obviously, although he frantically wipes at his eyes when he notes Tywin’s look of disdain. Rhaella shows no such compunctions and simply turns away, burying her head into Jenny’s skirts. Jenny catches Argella looking her way, and quickly averts her eyes, reddening like a little girl. Duncan is looking at her too, terribly torn until Argella hisses, “Go on, then,” and he inhales and walks over to her. To his credit, he does not take his mistress up in his arms and kiss her in full view of the family, but he does briefly take her hand, and they have a quick, hushed exchange of words, before she nods and lets go of him. 

Rhaenys watches the entire time, violet eyes like daggers. Argella tries to squeeze her shoulder, but her eldest jerks away, brooding silently. Daenora is cupping Maegor’s face with her hands, some unspoken words passing between them. Then she kisses him on the cheek and pats his chest; he takes her small hand in his own and squeezes it fondly. 

“Aemon,” Argella warns, as the gates open and the party begins to ride out. He’s starting to hiccup with sobs. “Remember what I told you.” Her son nods jerkily, and tries in vain to control himself, but has little success until Elaena flings her arms around him. Only then does his crying subside. Rhaenys barely waits before the gates have started to close again before she stalks back off indoors. 

What follows can be easily recounted; for six weeks, Targaryen and Baratheon forces hunt for rebels and mercenaries in the Kingswood. Over the course of those six weeks, three decisive battles are fought; one in the woodlands outside Fawnton, one along the Wendwater, one in the heart of the wood, several leagues south of the intersection between the Kingsroad and the Roseroad. All three of those battles are victories for House Targaryen. That comes as no great surprise. But in the midst of all this, several days before the Red Keep has any word of the outcome of the third and final battle, Argella takes a bath and falls asleep.

When she wakes up, the water has rapidly cooled in the tub and her hair is plastered to her shoulders and back; her neck is sore and stiff. But she smiles, for Ellyn is sitting beside the tub almost lazily, her own head tilted back as if to get a better look at her. “I told your maids I’d help you dress,” she says, tracing a circular pattern up and down Argella’s damp arm. The hair on it prickles, and Argella grins slyly, then splashes her lightly with the bathwater. Spirits are high, after all; two battles into this wretched little excuse for a rebellion and they’ve incurred no major losses, nor lost any ground. The Hawk has been killed by Maegor; he sent back the head still in its birdlike helm with Aegon’s blessing. Betha has it mounted on a spike overlooking the bailey. One down, two to go.

Ellyn sputters in disgust, then grips Argella firmly by the shoulders, hands slipping from the wetness to properly kiss her. “That was petty.”

“Me, petty?” Argella scoffs, standing up in the tub and pulling Ellyn up with her. “That must be such a shock to you.”

Ellyn brushes her thumb alongside one of her breasts in retaliation, and Argella laughs and kisses her again, her own hand roaming further down- there’s a faint childish shout from two rooms over, and she pauses, groaning. “I’ve warned them not to yell like that- they’ll have Harbert come bursting in on us.” Aegon left the majority of his Kingsguard behind to guard his wife and grandchildren, but Duncan the Tall rode out with him, as loyally as ever. Argella wonders what will happen when the giant’s age finally catches up with him, but she hopes that day is not anytime soon. He may be lowborn as they come, but she has never seen a finer warrior, and she counts her own father and brothers in that.

“I was showing them how to play cards earlier,” Ellyn sighs, resting her head on Argella’s shoulder as Argella pulls back her wet hair and loops it into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. “They didn’t seem very interested. Rhaenys wanted to know if we could play dice.”

“Of course she did,” Argella says, just as she hears a door open and shut. She wrinkles her nose. “Gods be good-,”

“Argella!” Harbert calls out faintly from the other room. His voice sounds slightly strangled. She wonders what on earth he caught the children doing, and grabs her robe, slipping it over her shoulders and knotting it hastily. 

“Coming!” Ellyn calls out lightly, sharing an exasperated glance with Argella, and after a moment they both slip into the lady’s solar, trying not to look like misbehaving girls on some lark, and more like the dignified ladies they ought to be. 

Argella is not even looking, sliding her feet into her slippers when Ellyn stops short with a strange sort of gasp, as if she’d just been punched in the stomach. She looks up and sees Harbert, standing before the closed door, a hand on his sword, his face gaunt and drained of all color behind the new patch over his left eye. He wanted to ride out with the rest, to prove himself fit for battle once more, but Argella told him he could damn well prove himself here, keeping them safe. He is staring at what Ellyn is staring at, and now it’s horrifically clear that he was ordered to call them in here without raising the alarm, and obeyed, because-

Because the Rat is there, sitting on the desk, one wiry arm looped around Rhaenys’ squirming figure, a blade pressed to her neck. It’s not even a proper sword, just a long, rippling dagger. The sunlight spilling in through the half-open doors leading out to the gardens behind him casts strange shimmers across the metal. These are Ellyn’s private quarters, on the ground floor, just as she prefers them. Argella always likes to spend time here with the children because they can run in and out of doors as they please, and there’s the larger tub, without having to worry about all those flights of stairs for the maidservants to bring it up and down. Aemon is sitting on the floor, gaping up at the little man. And he is short for a man, Argella thinks, more than a head shorter than her, shorter than Ellyn, even, but still plenty tall and strong enough to overpower a child or a small woman. The carved wooden snout regard her almost inquisitively. 

Baela is with Betha, she thinks, likely looking at the tapestries or in the stables to pet Betha’s many horses, and Elaena is with Rhaella and perhaps Jenny Mudd, off in the gardens outside, far away from this, and Aerys and Tywin are gods know where, but her two eldest are here, inside, in danger, and she almost does not hear the Rat say, “I know you wouldn’t scream, would you, Your Grace?” She is not to be addressed as ‘Your Grace’ as she is not yet a queen, but a common murderer wouldn’t know that, would he? “You wouldn’t anymore than this one,” the Rat nods to Harbert, who is still standing there, every muscle taut, barely restrained from charging across the room. He could kill this man in an instant, but not before-,

“You can try,” acknowledges the Rat. “You can yell and scream an’ curse me, if you like, or have you big strong knight of a brother come an’ take my head. But I’d open up her throat first.” He glides the blade very carefully through the wisps of Rhaenys’ baby hairs along her forehead. Her brave daughter does not flinch, she strains in an attempt to look at the man instead. He chuckles. “Isn’t she a hardy little thing? Not like her aunt. That one screamed and wailed, she did. Kept dragging herself along the floor, yellin’ for me not to hurt her babies. Had to kick her into the pool just to shut her up,” he reflects. 

She needs to scream, Argella thinks, or order Harbert to attack him. Maybe- maybe he would only injure Rhaenys, maybe he wouldn’t be able to deal a killing slash or stab, she cannot risk Aemon’s life and Ellyn’s life for the sake of her daughter, she cannot, what if one of the other children come running in from the gardens, what if Elaena innocently dashes through the doors with Rhaella, she needs to move, she needs to stop him, now, before it’s too late-

“How did you get in?” Ellyn asks too calmly, trying to keep him talking, stall for time, Argella realizes with a flare of protective pride in her. “Not wearing that mask, surely.”

“I don’t know you,” comments the Rat. “Should I? Are you another one of the whores they keep around here? They have so many. No. Not with the mask. I’ve been in the city for weeks. Inside this keep for days. So many people come rushing in from the wood, convinced your good king Egg’s going to burn it all down. You bring a wife and children with you, you have papers claiming you’re a carpenter, oh, they let you go all sorts of places. And these people,” he crows, “gods, they hate you, they do. So many promises. He was their Egg, he was one of them, one of us, wasn’t he?”

“He slept in barns an’ fields an’ drank with their sons an’ dressed in rags an’ fucked their daughters before he settled for a Blackwood. The people’s prince! They drank to him in every tavern and brothel when they heard he’d been named king. But nothing changed. There was still war. Invasions. Famines an’ plagues. An’ his children, they don’t even look like proper Targaryens, do they? Don’t even look like they could be gods. Or chosen by gods. Makes you wonder what we keep you around for. Dragon kings with no dragons, just children who fuck each other. Or marry Baratheons,” he tells Argella, “and whelp Baratheon looking children.”

“Let her go,” says Argella. “If you want to hurt them, hurt Duncan, kill me.” She steps forward, hands raised, palms facing him. “I’ll come to where you are.”

“Look at you,” says the Rat, “six feet of woman, drippin’ wet from your bath. It’s a shame that husband of yours, he’d rather fuck some river lord’s mad bastard, isn’t it? I heard her singing out there, before. Maybe I’ll stop by to listen on my way out.”

“You aren’t getting out,” Harbert growls. “You’ll die either way. Let the princess go.”

Rhaenys is staring directly at Argella, not pleadingly, but in angry shock, the way she might look when caught doing something wrong that she believes is very right. Like pummeling Tywin Lannister to a pulp. “No,” says the Rat. “Here’s my offer. Bring the boy over to me, and I’ll let the girl go. He’s the only one who needs to die. Put you in a right little state with him gone, won’t it? Who to inherit, who to inherit…,” he clicks his tongue, a hollow little sound in a room that seems increasingly small and cramped, the walls closing in on them all.

“Stand up,” he says to Aemon. “I hate to cut a woman’s throat, ‘specially one as pretty as your sisters’.” 

Aemon jumps to his feet. “No,” Harbert snaps, “no, Aemon, stay where you are-,”

The blade is back at the underside of Rhaenys’ jaw, dotted with blood. She does not cry out, but makes a frightened little gasp instead, sounds like a proper child for once and not a girl of ten so eager to grow up, and a wave of rage rises up in Argella. “I will rip you limb from limb,” she says, and all thought of how ridiculous that must sound is lost to her. “Do you understand? You will not hurt either of them.” She strides forward, and Ellyn locks her fingers with hers and steps with her, as much as Argella wants to shove her back.

“I’ll come over to you,” Aemon offers in a voice that is for once too steady, not tremulous or shy. Rhaenys’ small whimper of instinctive fear made her sound five years younger all at once, and now Argella’s son seems five years older in this instant, as he calmly steps forward. “You don’t have to hurt my sister anymore. Please don’t. I’m coming to you.”

“Aemon-,”

“No, don’t-,”

“Let go of me!” Rhaenys shrieks suddenly, kicking and flailing, and the Rat slides off the desk, forcing her in front of him as Aemon approaches, and Argella opens her mouth to properly roar for any guards in earshot, because she cannot lose either of them, not like this, not like this-

And no one sees the shadow through the doors until Jenny of Oldstones is through them, bounding into the room like an eager young colt, and smashing a heavy pot spilling with dirt and pebbles into the side of the Rat’s head. Pottery shatters across the desk and floor, the Rat crumples, Rhaenys screams and scrambles free, Harbert crosses the room in what seems like two leaps, sword raised, ceramics crunching underfoot, and Argella rushes forward, grabbing at her son and daughter, shouting hoarsely, as Ellyn dives for the knife while the Rat feebly stirs, moaning, Jenny steps back into the sunlight, beaming, and Harbert’s sword crunches through muscle and bones in a sickly sawing motion. 

Then there is perhaps a few scant seconds of silence before three more knights burst in through the doors, weapons drawn, and in that very short interval of time Argella is kissing Aemon’s brow, his little nose, his cheeks, and Rhaenys is clinging to her, sobbing, and Ellyn has the knife in hand, holding it with disgust as though it were a severed head, much like the one Harbert has just kicked across the room in fury, and sweet Jenny says in that lilting, lyrical voice of hers, “At Summerhall, my Heart, she dreamed he might come again. I saw him climbing down the side of the trellis, while I was teaching the girls to skip stones in the pond.”

“You musn’t worry,” she says, “I locked them in the gardener’s shed, and then I came. My Heart, she’s seldom wrong.”

Another head above the bailey, that night, and the third some six days later. A complete set at last. And Jenny’s Heart to thank for it. Argella does not know whether to laugh or cry. As it turns out, there is really one reliable way to kill a rat when one does not have a cat on hand, and that is crushing it with something heavy as it skitters by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a trip and a half, sorry about that. This is my 'just go with it and have fun' fic not my 'meticulously plotted and agonized over' fic, so I apologize if the very vague plot points and general aura of 'what the fuck' is putting anyone off. I'm really genuinely shocked this even has 30+ bookmarks and this many comments. That'll teach me to try to blow off some steam with an easy breezy Targ romp. 
> 
> Notes?:
> 
> 1\. This chapter starts with a flashback to months before Argella and the family ever went west, when Ellyn's husband had just passed away from the illness. It's supposed to sort of pleasingly contrast, them outside the sept in stifling mourning regalia, to them being freely affectionate and joking around while Argella is nude and in the bath towards the end of this chapter. Initially Ellyn was not present at all but I couldn't stand this long of a chapter without her being present. 
> 
> 2\. Brienne's grandfather is named Tristan of Tarth here and he's just a cool giant man with a giant sword, what can I say. Fun fact: he marries a Caswell of Bitterbridge because that's where we as book readers are introduced to Brienne for the first time.
> 
> 3\. Aegon, Betha, and Tall Dunk as a weird proto-family is I think a very interesting idea. I kind of want to write a one-shot at some point where Betha somehow gets caught up in one of Egg and Dunk's (older) adventures and really comes to regard Duncan as this elder brother figure while at the same time falling for Egg. Obi-Wan, Padme, and Anakin vibes? Maybe? Sorry I'll stop dragging the worst fandom of all time into this.
> 
> 4\. Ironically, Tywin is becoming friends with Aerys much quicker than he is becoming friends with Aemon, much to Duncan and Argella's mutual feelings of, 'oh, gods damn it!'. In my head the childhood friendship of Tywin and Aerys boils down to: Tywin is like that seemingly 'cool' new kid who moves into your fourth grade class halfway through the year who spends the week with his very intensely protective mother and the weekends with his dad who 'lets him' try his cigarettes and watch R-rated movies while he's passed out drunk. 
> 
> 5\. Daenora is the cool aunt to Argella's kids. Rhaenys in particular comes to her when she doesn't want to open up to her mom. (I *wonder why*, Argella?). Daenora is also pretty keen on the idea of keeping it all in the family and wedding Rhaenys to Maegor some years down the line. Argella obviously has no issues with the fact that they are second cousins, given the time period, but does take issue with the fact that Maegor is nine years older, at one point had a potential claim to the throne (and through Andal law technically still does), and that Rhaenys wouldn't really be 'gaining' all that much through the marriage, as opposed to if she married into another Great House and got to be ruling lady of some place like the Vale or Reach or Dorne, etc.
> 
> 6\. We don't know what canonically happened to Aelora beyond that she was attacked by the Rat, Hawk, and Pig at a masked ball. We may find out in Fire & Blood II at some point, who knows. The sudden deaths of her older siblings deeply traumatized Daenora as a little girl, combined with her father's mental instability and the fact that she was married off to Aerion at the age of sixteen, who was extremely sadistic and abusive towards her. Having a dragon did not save Rhaena from Maegor. But it's easy to long for that sort of imagined freedom to just fly off into the sunset, or roast a man alive, when you've been consistently used and abused by your own family.
> 
> 7\. The current Master of Whisper theorizes that this very sudden peasant rebellion with a suspicious number of mercenaries may or may not have been financed by a very pissed off Blackfyre widow. In my dream version of this fic, we'd have an entire James Bond villain sequence introducing the sinister women of whatever's left of House Blackfyre, but we're gonna settle for this instead and pretend that far across the Narrow Sea, a very stylish lady is examining her collection of gilded skulls and chuckling to herself.
> 
> 8\. In my initial outline for this fic, Daeron was also supposed to be killed off, but we're so AU at this point that is it really worth it? No, because I love him, and just this *one time* the knights that slay together are gonna stay together. Looking at you, Renly, Loras, Jon Conn, Miles Toyne. Just let me have this. Please.
> 
> 9\. Jenny's 'Heart' is the woman who goes on to become the Ghost of High Heart. Next and final chapter will be very long and take place almost entirely at Summerhall. We're now in AU for the sake of AU territory so expect the unexpected.
> 
> 10\. I'm going to be traveling a lot next week and on top of still trying to update Haunt/Hunt this fic will probably take a back seat. It should be finished the weekend after next.


	8. we must be the only ones left

Argella is writing a letter to Jon Arryn when the raven comes. The window just beyond her desk provides an excellent view of Dragonstone’s twisted, gargoyle-flanked rookery tower, a spiky black menace jutting out above the other rooftops of the fortress, and on a rainy spring afternoon like today she stands a good chance of seeing most of the ravens come in, unless the fog rolls back down from the mountains. They receive many letters, frequently, what with Duncan’s large family, larger circle of friends, and on top of that, being the household of the crown prince of Westeros, and so she pays it little mind. 

The Arryns are notorious snobs and so she is attempting her very best penmanship with this letter, despite all of Ellyn’s offers to draft it for her; Argella’s handwriting is not terrible- it is nowhere near as cramped and hard to read as Duncan’s scrawl is- but it is not Ellyn’s neat little letters either. Argella was never one for writing or reading and it is paying her back now, as she squints over what she has down so far. Technically she need not beg permission for a visit, given who she is and what she married into, but it is the polite thing to do, giving some forewarning, and she feels she ought to keep things friendly, what with her nephew Steffon fostering at the Eyrie. That is something she is glad for, that she never had to send Aemon to foster, even if they are apart right now.

House Targaryen has had its trials over the past few generations, but those tragedies and mishaps seem to pale in comparison to the Arryns, whose main line has been whittled down to unlucky Jon Arryn, and his two much younger siblings, Alys and Ronnel. Arryn has been wed twice now, and still not managed to produce a child that survived the cradle. His sister has had better luck, but her children are still very young and apparently of weak constitutions themselves, and no man really wants to name a nephew- or niece- heir. Then again, most men also have little desire to wed a third time, and Jon Arryn appears in no rush to find a third bride. The man is thirty six; he may have simply given up. At any rate, Ormund writes that he is very fond of Steffon, spirited boy that he is, and Argella and her children have never seen the Vale.

Now they have entered the second year of what seems to be a fair spring, why not travel once more? Besides, after several months touring the Vale and attending tourneys or hawking or whatever it is they do to occupy their time up their, they can get a ship from the Fingers and take it up to White Harbor. Hopefully summer will be on its way by then, the seas will be calm, and the North will be less the brutal landscape of wildlings, mountain clans, and bearded free-riders that everyone describes with such horrified fascination. Perhaps she’s mellowed out with old age. Perhaps she is simply cognizant of the fact that her children’s childhoods seem to be fleeing, and every day Rhaenys seems more a young woman and less the little girl Argella tore her hair out over. 

She’s finally finished the letter and is impatiently holding it over a candle for the ink to dry when Dragonstone’s new maester knocks tentatively on her door. Victar is a slight, nervous man who has been serving them for just half a year, and while he can’t be much older than two-and-twenty his hairline is already rapidly vanishing. Argella is not sure whether it is the stress of serving her family or the desolate atmosphere of the island. She holds her free hand out expectantly, ignoring the ink stains on her fingers. When he hesitates before handing it over she exhales in frustration and turns her head too quickly, causing an instant smarting ache in the back of her neck. “Gods- we both know you’ve read it, must I command the words from your lips?” she snaps, unfairly. She has no cause to be so short with the poor man, only some small part of her knows the letter must have foul news in it, or least unexpected news, or he wouldn’t be so reluctant for her inevitable explosion. The parchment lands in her palm, she sets down her own letter, and leaning back in her armchair with a groan of a woman far older, skims it. 

The pauses, reads it again, and feels her breath do a nervous little hitch in her throat. That does not sound like her. She’s been through far worse without stammering or gasping or squealing in horrified dismay, but she’s two-and-thirty now, not two-and-twenty, not a wild-eyed girl to be buoyant with rage or defiance, eager for a new battle. The young, Argella has decided lately, have the privilege of being excited at every new injustice or grievance, because they still feel they can do something about it, take a stand, be bold. She’s not quite beaten down yet, but she does at time feel like a sodden blanket left out to weakly dry. Things weigh her down that once would have given her wings of fury. So she does not scream, or curse, or throw something, doesn’t send the lit candle toppling into the fluttering drapes, doesn’t order Victar from the room with a roar so she can have a tantrum in proper solitude. 

“Come take this back,” she says instead, bracing her forehead with her inky fingers, rubbing it into the not-so-new creases there, the skin weathered by years of sun and wind and worry. “And keep it somewhere safe. Under lock and key, if you must. I do not want word of this breathed anywhere but between the two of us, Maester.”

“Yes, my lady,” says Victar, his young voice gone momentarily high with inadvertent sympathy, and once that would have irritated Argella all the more, the idea of this young man in any way pitying or feeling sorry for her, the poor beleaguered wife and mother. Now she just wipes her hand on her skirt, as if to remove all traces of the parchment from her skin, as if she could wipe away the memory of it as well. He leaves her be to sit and brood; she watches rain patter against the window pane for a few minutes, then blows out the candle and leaves her letter to Jon Arryn behind. 

Ellyn can be found in the library; she and Tanda have been visiting for three moons now, and Ellyn has spent most of that time surrounded by old tomes and scrollings, checking and rechecking her rough outline of the Targaryen lineage all the way back to Gaemon. She has far more interest in the topic than Argella ever has, but she says it is crucial for her great work. Ellyn has been intent on writing a complete history of House Targaryen, from the early days on Dragonstone to their present time, the reign of Aegon V, for several years now. Argella had dismissed it as just talk when Ellyn first broached the topic, but she has proven surprisingly committed to it, even if she’s barely begun to write the actual text yet. 

Tanda blessedly does not share her mother’s inclination towards history; Ellyn is kept company by one of Dragonstone’s many overfed cats and two of Argella’s own brood instead. Elaena is sitting cross-legged on the table beside a towering stack of books, her pale silver gold hair a mussed and tangled mess in a ten year old’s estimation of a satisfactory braid. Viserys is curled up in Ellyn’s lap, slumped against her chest in a dozing state as she furiously scribbles by the bright light of a lamp. Argella’s last pregnancy culminated a year after the last rebellion, and she finally gave Duncan the second son they’d spent so much time fretting over the absence of. 

The pregnancy had been about as easy as the previous four, but the birth had been different, brutal in a way that none of the rest were for her. It had taken them all by surprise; she’d felt as though her body were betraying her cruelly at the last moment. Argella does not remember much of it; she was in and out of consciousness while the midwives frantically worked to avert a breech birth. Viserys came a fortnight before he was expected, silent, the cord wrapped tight around his tiny neck. She was too delirious from bloodloss to be afraid for him, but Duncan was terrified, he easily admitted afterward, until he heard that first cry. 

“No more,” is the first thing Argella recalled him saying to her, two days later when she was well enough to sit up and eat and drink and nurse her child. “I should not have pushed you into the birthing bed again with this one.”

She had protested, more out of pride than anything else, that she was only eight-and-twenty and plenty of women went on having children until they neared forty, or at least attempting to. “Five is nothing,” she’d told him hoarsely. “My mother was pregnant six times.”

“And left with three living children to show for it,” he’d snapped, in an uncharacteristic display of temper, and then added in a softer voice, “I’ve no desire to be a widower before I am forty myself, Gella. Five is plenty.”

Later she’d realized he had not just been shaken by the nerve wracking birth and their son’s perilous health, but by the thought that he might lose her. She’d drifted off to sleep still blank with shock, numbly smug about it, that despite all the grief and spite she’d given him, she’d still somehow won soft-hearted Duncan over, to the extent that he might be genuinely bereft were she to depart this life. Later it would occur to her that perhaps men were capable of loving women even if they did not sire them or feel desire for them, and perhaps Duncan would not just be saddened at the thought of his beloved children going motherless, but also at the thought of her not being present in his life at all.

Viserys is four now, and would have been a Shaera had he been another girl. He takes after the Targaryen coloring in hair and milk pale skin, like Elaena, but his eyes are as brown as Duncan’s, startling dark in his face. Privately Argella doubts he will ever be a tremendously handsome man, but she is biased towards her own family’s looks, of course. He has made it four years, and that matters more to her than a pretty face or strong jaw. “Look who’s here,” Ellyn prods him awake at the sight of her, and Argella shakes her head, but it’s too late.

“Mumma!” he spots her and scrambles up onto the table beside his sister, trodding over a few rumpled scrolls, and all but scrabbles up her waist and into her arms. Argella sets him on her hip with a sigh, and not having the energy to scold, just gives Elaena a dark look. Somewhat guiltily, she sidles off the table and back into a proper seat, smoothing the skirt of her dress. 

Argella feels for Elaena at times; of all her siblings she is closest to Aemon, not Rhaenys nor Baela, and it cannot be easy for a bookish, excitable, sometimes odd little girl to try to fit in with devious Rhaenys and stubborn Baela. At least she has Rhaella, who will indulge Elaena’s queer imagination and often rambling speeches about this or that- Elaena sees an interestingly shaped cloud, Duncan once remarked, and concocts an entire history for it right then and there. Rhaenys sees a cloud and predicts rain, then asks if anyone wants to place a wager on it. Baela sees a cloud and complains that she is hungry because it reminds her of mutton. 

Ellyn sees the look in her eyes and immediately stops writing, quill pen hovering over the parchment. She mouths something wordlessly, some question or fear, but Argella gives a minute shake of her head and asks with forced brightness, “Where are my girls, then? In the gardens, getting themselves soaked again?” They’ve had a brief streak of warm weather this week, aside from the drizzling rain, and so seldom sees Rhaenys or Baela indoors unless they are taking their meals. She can hardly blame them; how many times did she and Ellyn go darting outside at every chance they got, whether it be down to the shore at Storm’s End or into the lush green forest of the Rainwood? 

“Where else?” Ellyn replies with a wry smile, although her tone is troubled. Elaena looks between the two of them curiously, head cocked like a dog, sensing something is amiss. 

“Did we get another letter, Mother?” she asks, scooting back her chair and jumping to her feet. “Can I see it? Is it from Father?”

“Yes,” says Argella, fighting to keep her expression composed, “and no, you may not. Come down with me to find your sisters and leave Ellyn be.”

“Oh, she’s no bother,” Ellyn begins kindly, but Elaena’s inquisitive nature has won out; she abandons her place at Ellyn’s side and dashes over to Argella, who straightens the ribbon in her silken hair with a frown. “I was only just getting started, anyways.”

“Then you must read us what you have down so far at dinner,” Argella says, trying to convey with a glance that while she is clearly upset, this is nothing Ellyn need panic over as well. Ellyn watches her steadily for a moment, then nods and returns to her work. 

“Don’t forget your cloaks,” she calls after them, “the wind’s picking up again!”

The roses in Aegon’s gardens are still pale little buds, but the dragon’s breath and lavender have begun to bloom, a pleasing bruised medley of red and purple dotting the dark greens and browns and greys of the thickets and bushes and wispy long grasses. A seagull is fighting with a crow on the far wall, and she follows the sound of loud girlish chatter and the burbling fountain, where a lichen-crusted statue of Queen Rhaenys clutching a wild rose casts a long, muddled shadow across the stony ground. The rain is just a light sprinkling, and the girls have sought refuge under a canopied trellis anyways, where Rhaenys holds court as usual, showing off her latest acquisition, a Valyrian steel short sword Duncan had made for her on a lark. 

Argella counts herself as far more forgiving than her own mother ever would have been, had she thought to pick up sword or shield or shown any inclination for weaponry that was not a delicate, ladylike hunting bow. She gave up on trying to scold or guilt her daughter out of it long ago. Rhaenys protests that if she is afforded the same education as Aemon, the same knowledge of history and mathematics and languages and religion, surely she would be worthy of the same martial pursuits, and Argella is willing to accept it so long as she keeps such pursuits private. If she wishes to practice swordplay or pick up a spear in her own time, in some secluded courtyard or hall, so be it. 

Duncan has afforded her a series of tutors, ranging from the doubtful to the passionate, and Argella has never spoken out against it so long as Rhaenys does not develop any dreams of riding in a tourney or slipping on a mail shirt and going out to hunt bandits. But she knows better than to go about wearing a sword belt across her chest or waving weapons around in front of her friends. She is five-and-ten now, nearly of age, not a child anymore. So involved is Rhaenys in this little demonstration, mapping out her footwork with one slippered foot over another, silken trousers that she bought off some Essosi merchant in Bronzegate billowing in the wind, that she does not even notice her mother’s approach, at least until Elaena calls out a cheerful greeting.

“Oh Rhae, you’ve been caught out again,” drawls Joanna Lannister, who perched daintily in a swinging wicker seat hanging from a gnarled tree, lightly dragging the hem of her finely embroidered skirt across the damp ground. At the sight of Argella she straightens with practiced ease, slender shoulders back, chest out, chin raised, and affixes her most charming smile. That is not very difficult, as all of Joanna’s smiles are by nature very charming. Joanna came to court at the tender age of seven, alongside Genna Lannister, her cousin and dearest friend, ostensibly to serve as playmates and companions for Rhaenys and Rhaella and the rest, but mostly because Tytos Lannister nearly betrothed his sole daughter to a Frey, something still snickered over on occasion because of how narrowly it was averted. 

Genna herself is sitting on a wrought iron bench beside Rhaella, a hand over her mouth to muffle her snickers as she looks sideways at Argella. Rhaella looks up from whatever she was whispering to Baela, who is sitting at her feet, pulling up grass to braid into a crown or bracelet of some sort, and pales slightly. Argella believes whole-heartedly that bringing Rhaella here was the best thing that could be done for the girl, instead of leaving her to contend with a father many whisper has gone mad with grief and a brother whose suffocating presence would like as not leave her tongue-tied and sitting in a corner waiting to be told what to do. It’s not that Aerys is truly such a horrendous little creature, Argella thinks, but nor did he inherit either of his parents’ best qualities. Aerys is truly content when all attention is focused on him. When it is not, to call him ‘insufferable’ would be putting it lightly. He’s clever, but lazy. The same could perhaps be said for a few of her own children. A royal childhood, as it turns out, does not do much to promote the virtues of applying oneself to one’s studies. What is there to strive for? They all know only one of them will be inheriting anything. 

Tanda is leaning against a tree, giggling, although her giggles die out swiftly when she sees Argella. Rhaenys turns with exaggerated slowness, takes in the sight of her mother and younger siblings, sheathes her little sword, and tosses it aside. It lands lightly in Rhaella’s lap, she runs a tentative hand over the scabbard as if touching a precious jewel, before carefully stowing it aside. “Now Mother,” Rhaenys begins with mock sobriety. “You did tell me it was perfectly alright to practice in the gardens so long as I was careful-,”

“Your father’s written us from King’s Landing,” Argella interrupts her, plastering on a thrilled smile. “He’ll be here by the end of the week to take us back to court. Won’t that be lovely, girls? It’s been nearly six moons since you were back in the city.”

Joanna lights up as if the sun had suddenly shone on her heart-shaped face, clutching Genna’s hand. Genna brightens as well, no doubt thinking of her brother, and Tanda only pouts and asks, “Do I have to go, too? Mother wanted to stay here and work on her manuscript until summer started, she said-,”

“I imagine you’ll remain,” Argella assures her, while Rhaenys sharply inquires, “I thought you said we were going north, not south. Because Lord Stark wrote you-,”

“Well, that will be postponed, of course,” Argella says, setting Viserys down with a groan. He immediately moves to where Baela is, demanding to help with her handicraft.

“Why?” Rhaenys sets her jaw in the same Baratheon scowl she’s had since the age of five. 

Argella stops, stiffens, and looks directly at her for once. At fifteen her daughter is tall and slim, and from a distance could easily be mistaken for her Blackwood grandmother. But her hair is black and her eyes are violet and it is obvious to everyone that she will be a great beauty in a few years. A greatly gracious beauty, no. No but a great beauty nonetheless. She is brave and spirited and determined and she always speaks her mind and she can be quite funny when she puts her mind to it and she is a very good liar and Argella does love her. But Rhaenys is never satisfied. And Argella thinks this gnawing need for more, more, is going to pick her apart from the inside out, because she is a Targaryen women, and she needs learn how to be satisfied with perhaps far less than she feels she deserves. There is only so much Argella can do to stop it. 

“Because your grandfather has commanded us to come and pay him a visit,” she says simply, “and so that is what we must do.”

It is a different story when Duncan does arrive. His ship pulls in four days later; Argella rides down to the harbor to meet him, something she rarely does, given how arduous a downhill journey it is. Ordinarily her husband would be pushing his mount uphill to reach his children as soon impossible; instead they pay for a private room at the more isolated of the two inns along the shoreline, and lock themselves away for two hours somewhere they can be certain Rhaenys or Elaena won’t be eavesdropping. Duncan is five-and-thirty now; there are traces of grey emerging in his hair and stubble, and his face is lined and weathered. They sit at the same narrow table, watch the rain pick up again outside.

“Tell me how serious this is,” Argella finally says. “Tell me if I need to smuggle our daughter on a boat to Storm’s End.”

“You don’t really believe my father would force our hand-,”

“I don’t know what to believe,” she says curtly. “But I cannot- you know I cannot bring her there like a lamb to the slaughter if he intends to go through with this. I will not. I would see her a continent away before I ever considered such a thing.”

“He is not explicitly inviting-,”

“Ordering.”

Duncan exhales. “He is inviting us to court and then to Summerhall to celebrate my mother’s fifty fith name day. To celebrate our family. And yes, perhaps to indulge in some schemes of pyromancy-,”

“Had you told me a year ago that your father believed he might stand a chance of waking the dragon,” Argella snaps, “I would have laughed myself silly. Now you expect me to believe that he will not give this damned prophecy real weight? This is- this is witchcraft. No. It is not even that. It is ludicrous nonsense from the mouth of a deformed little hag who your Jenny has allowed to consider herself a prophet-,”

“This is not Jenny’s fault,” he retorts firmly, fist clenched on the table. “She could not have known-,”

“Not have known that Jaehaerys would be eagerly scribbling it down to report back to his father? No, you’re right, I’m more furious with him. He is the one who gave the words meaning. And he is wrong,” she decides. “He’s wrong. This was a- a- ask Ellyn! This is a natural progression. The age of dragons and magic- that is over. Long over. There is no rewinding time. No amount of incantations or rituals or prayers are going to bring them back, and the idea of-,” she cannot even bring herself to say it.

“I think his priority is attempting to wake the eggs one last time at Summerhall,” Duncan says gently. “Not forcing Rhaenys and Aemon into marriage.”

“We don’t even know if that’s what she meant- Gods, she doesn’t even know what she meant, does she? It’s nonsense. The prince that was- we have a prince! We plenty of bloody princes to squabble over who is fate’s chosen hero,” she intones sarcastically, venomously. “There is no cause to think that Aemon must wed a sister. None. Your brother is mad, and your father has always been too soft on him, and now because he is becoming a frail old man-,”

“My father is not frail,” Duncan rolls his eyes, “he’s not yet sixty.”

“His health is not what it once was,” Argella turns her face away from him, away from the pale, grimy window, away from the world outside threatening to tear her children from her and place them in the stuff of myths and legends and magic. “And he is afraid. He is afraid his legacy will be…”

“Me?” Duncan puts a hand on her arm. “I am prepared. I have been prepared for a long time, Argella. I will be sorry to succeed him, but I can rule.”

“I know you can rule,” Argella jerks away. “I’ve been waiting for you to rule for half my life. But he thinks… he knows your house is not even a fraction of what it once was. He may not care for blood purity or sister wives but he does care for the future, and if he is convinced that this is the only way forward-,”

“He will not compel them to wed. Aemon is very dear to him, as is Rhaenys. My mother would be horrified.”

“Your mother is not the king! You do not understand,” Argella looks back at him suddenly, gaze raking over his worn frame, his humble clothes and the way he still carries himself like some minor lordling, not the future ruler of seven kingdoms. “If I- if we go into this blindly, naively- could you ever look your daughter in the eyes again, if her grandfather tells her she must wed her brother so they can produce the Prince that was Promised?” she demands. “You know- they are not Jae and Shaera. Thank the gods. They love each other as siblings. As they should.”

“Rhaenys might jump at the chance to be queen,” Duncan points out, and Argella considers slapping him, before he amends swiftly, “It is not what I want either. I am only trying to urge caution here. If you go into this bristling and ready for a fight-,”

“Listen to me,” Argella says sharply, “and stop lecturing, gods damn it, Duncan. You know them, and you love them as I do. I will not countenance it. If they try to bring her to a sept they will have to drag her from my arms. She is five-and-ten. He is twelve. It would-,”

“It would break your heart,” he says in a softer, gentler voice, taking her hand. “It would break mine too.”

“No,” says Argella. “It would not break my heart. It would break any vows I ever made to you and yours. I would do everything in my power to have it annulled. Your father would be forced to send me from court. And I would take the children remaining to me, and go to Storm’s End, to my brother, and ask him to call his banners, and I would petition your sister to ask her husband to call his banners, for Rhaelle loves them dearly, and I would write to the Faith and demand they put an end to this incestuous madness, and I would not stop fighting it until my dying breath.” She squeezes his hands back, hard. “And your daughter, who is every bit as Baratheon as she is Targaryen, would flee like Saera to become a courtesan or throw herself from a tower before any man forced her to lie beneath her little brother and bear his children when they are still children themselves.”

“I understand,” he says after a moment, and then lets go, and stands. “My mother has suggested that the language has been misinterpreted, that ‘sister’ might be more akin to ‘female relative’. She believes a betrothal between Aemon and Rhaella could satisfy matters.”

“I have been arguing in favor of that for years,” Argella says, slightly mollified. “They complain he looks more Baratheon than Targaryen- then give him Rhaella to wed. She has the right looks and the right temperament. She’s not the shy little mute she was as a child, she is only two years younger, and I know her well. She would encourage him, not smother him or ridicule him. Surely Jae cannot complain of his daughter becoming queen.”

“My brother has more care for prophecies than practical matters as of late,” Duncan replies, a shadow across his face. “Ideally he would like Aerys and Rhaella to wed as well- he thinks it might… correct course, to bring back the old ways.”

“They were still wedding sister to brother when the last of the dragons died,” Argella says coldly. “You are more a father to those children than he ever has been since their mother was killed. He doesn’t know what’s best for himself, least of all them. Had he remarried-,”

“He will never remarry,” Duncan closes his eyes briefly, as if in frustration. “You know this. He loved Shaera. She was the only woman he will ever love.”

“Shaera has been gone five years now,” Argella swallows before she finishes the sentence, because it is still painful, “and his obsessions and his research and his prophecies will not bring a dead woman back to life, no more than they could raise up a dragon from eggs that are surely stone.”

“He suggested attempting the ritual here, but Father insisted on Summerhall.”

Argella is glad for that. She is in no state to host the entire horde here, nevermind let them bring in pyromancers and alchemists and wizards to fill her halls and stoke up strange fires by the dark of night. She relaxes some, confident that Duncan will not pull the rug out from under her, will not roll over belly up for his father and brother if it comes to it, that he will not sell their children into misery with each other for the sake of some dwarf’s prophecy. She is appeased, and so their talk turns to more practical things; organizing their transportation, the appropriate chaperones for the Lannister girls while they are at the Red Keep, what to tell the children, and when they can expect to return from Summerhall. 

“You might wish to reread Edwyle Stark’s letter,” she proposes as he moves to hold the rickety door for her. “I found it compelling.”

“It will be a long journey up there,” Duncan acknowledges. “And a long, cold life for Rhaenys to wed into them.”

“Who else is there for her?” Argella questions, arching an eyebrow. “Loreza Martell’s boy, who is six years her junior? One of Jon Arryn’s sickly nephews? Tywin Lannister, your favorite?” She almost laughs at the way his mouth twists into a grimace. “I will not wed her into a lesser house. I don’t care what offers the Velaryons or Celtigars make. She is still a princess.”

“You think she would get on with the Starks? She does not share their faith, their customs, their dress-,”

“I think we should consider it. She need not be chained up in some godswood. There is still wealth in the North. Commerce. Places to travel and explore. And it would bring them into the fold.”

“My,” he mutters under his breath as they descend down into the quiet inn, “how your tune has changed regarding visiting Winterfell.”

She spends her last night on Dragonstone with Ellyn, of course, a stretch of time for once gloriously uninterrupted by children or household duties. Argella lies in the middle of the too-big bed and locks her long limbs around Ellyn’s smaller frame as if to keep her there forever. “You always run too hot,” Ellyn grumbles, extricating a skinny arm and patting her mussed curls. “Are you sure you’re not feverish? If you took ill you’d have to stay, of course.” She rolls over and rests her chin between Argella’s breasts, her eyes heavily lidded with a familiar mix of desire and exhaustion. She yawns. “You’d have to stay here with me to look after you.”

“Playing nursemaid, how romantic,” Argella reaches over and massages her shoulder. “How could I resist?”

“You can’t,” Ellyn smiles sleepily, but there is still sorrow in her deep pools of eyes. “Every time you leave I worry it’s for good.”

“That’s the silly prattle of an old woman,” Argella snorts. “You and I have many years left of nagging and hounding each other.”

“I pray so,” Ellyn rolls back off her and wriggles up so their heads are side by side, their hair intermingled. She throws one of her legs over Argella, who flinches. 

“Your feet are cold.”

“Summerhall is bad luck,” she whispers in turn. “I mislike this. They should have come here instead.”

“And drove me mad? No, thank you. It won’t be a very long visit. Four days by ship to the city. A three week’s caravan down to Summerhall. A week of festivities, then we’ll come back up, we’ll be back here again before you know it. Do say you’ll come to the Vale with us. Come on, Ellie. They think we Stormlanders are uncouth and savage fighters. Come prove them wrong.”

“You are the very picture of elegance and grace,” Ellyn proclaims, although she chuckles as she says it.

“Of course, but you put me to shame. They should have wed you into the royal line. You would have been a great queen. Ellyn the Good,” she intones, and Ellyn muffles her giggles into her shoulder, then they turn to kisses instead.

“No,” she says, as she nears the underside of Argella’s neck and makes her shudder with anticipation, “Good’s a heavy weight to bear, isn’t it? I’d rather be Ellyn the... Ellyn the…”

“Ellyn the Irreproachable,” Argella suggests, and brushes a stray strand of dark hair from her eyes. “Ellyn the Remarkable. Ellyn the Beloved-,”

“Most beloved,” Ellyn mutters, and finally catches Argella’s mouth with her own. 

“Most beloved,” Argella agrees a few minutes later, tracing patterns with her fingers on the inside of Ellyn’s thigh. “Tell me some of your grand tale, most beloved.”

Ellyn scrunches her nose up and looks half a girl again for a moment, then sits up and bed and fumbles for some papers. Argella lies on her side next to her listening as she rustles parchment and fumbles with a lantern to squint by the light of. “And in those days,” Ellyn begins, “the learned people of Valyria oft held dreams to be heralds of the future and signs of great import. And so when Daenys came to her lord father with visions of fire and ash blowing on the wind, of their cities and palaces sinking to the bottom of the sea, and their cries and wails lost to time, he believed her…”

Any trace of rain vanishes once they are on the mainland; the weather throughout the Crownlands and into the Stormlands is warm and dry, with blue skies stretched out for miles overhead. Argella feels a distinctive crackle in the air all the same, a too-humid sort of buzz that roots its way into her eardrums and prickles under her skin. She mentions it in passing several times to Duncan, who is very used to weather proclamations by now, and bears it all with bemused indifference. The children would not have cared whether they were faced with gale force winds; they are fond of their grandparents and fond of each other, and it does warm her to see Aemon greet his siblings so happily. 

She is proud of him, truly. He may still be sheepish and hesitant, prone to putting his foot squarely in his mouth when he does speak, and entirely helpless around pretty girls his own age, but he has taken to his weapons training with vigor, and Harbert reports that he has a fledgling preference for shield and mace. That’s good, Argella thinks, because at twelve Aemon is already standing five foot eight, and he will likely surpass his father in height, given how much he resembles his Baratheon uncles and grandfather, all square jaw, thick neck, and broad shoulders. Rhaenys and him have gotten along better in recent years as well; she throws her arms around him when they first see each other, almost knocking him back a step and ruffles his curly hair and calls him little brother and bothers him to spar with her someday soon, even if he is rapidly gaining on her in height. 

They leave the Lannister children behind with a smile and a wave; Argella is not very distraught. Genna and Joanna have been good friends to her girls, but when she first set out to bring Tywin to court, she had not quite anticipated her children being surrounded by lion cubs on all sides. Jeyne Marbrand passed in the birthing bed last year, and with Tytos floundering without her, clinging to his latest mistress and relying on his extended family to do much of the actual ruling, she does not think it bodes terribly well for the future. Tywin and Aerys have that much in common now too; dead mothers and distant fathers, and Tywin is all too willing to play the straight man to Aerys’ mischief and schemes. 

Putting up with the boy’s prattle all the way to Summerhall is bad enough, although at one point Rhaella smoothly cuts him off after he interrupts Aemon for the umpteenth time, and the shocked look on Aerys’ handsome young face is almost worth it. Even if he immediately reddens with fury when Rhaenys begins to laugh at him. Argella listens to their familiar banter and bickering and wishes, not for the first time, that she could somehow preserve them like this. Of course she wished much the same thing five years past, when they were still small children, all of them. Now they are growing and flowering and scrambling out of her determined embraces, swinging in and out of saddles and striding out of doors without so much as a ‘by your leave’. 

She knows she has been too soft on them, that Duncan was not stern enough, that she has let them grow bold and impertinent. But they also happy. Her childhood was not miserable by any means but she never recalls being truly happy and feeling free, except when she was with Ellyn, away from the eyes of their parents and any expectations of decorum. They are happy, and they are all together, and if Rhaenys does not wed until she is eighteen or nineteen, perhaps that could be for the best, perhaps they can have this for a little while longer. Elaena coaxes marching songs out of Duncan and makes up stories about talking animals to entertain Baela and Viserys, and Rhaenys races ahead of the column with Rhaella and Aemon, and Aerys hangs back and prods Maegor for tales of the last rebellion and his valor in battle, and Argella sits in the wheelhouse with Maegor’s pregnant wife, Aelinor Velaryon, and wishes Rhaelle were here, but she is pregnant with her third child, a little brother or sister for Alyssa and Hoster.

That crackling sensation remains, however, that feeling of a storm gathering just beyond the sunny horizon, and it never fades, no matter the time or day or what she is doing. When Summerhall stretches out before them, a green behemoth blossoming to life in the spring sunshine, draped in moss and ivy, those two distinct towers rising out of the middle and the arched passage between them framed by the setting sun, glowing orange like a fiery beacon, she feels the foreboding curdle in her gut. How can a place blooming with life feel so much like death? It even looks a little similar to Rain House, but she does not get that refreshed sense of rushing waters and clear blue-green forest pools. Summerhall feels like a thousand skittering gleaming beetles, crawling up her clothes and crunching underfoot. It feels too alive, too busy, too frenetic. It feels like it evaporates every drop of water that lands on it in an instant.

Jaehaerys does not come out to greet them, locked away in his study as usual, dreaming of dragonfire and squalling scaled princes, but Jenny does, and as much as Argella tries to adopt a look of sound disapproval, it is difficult. She may not like Jenny and her witchy ways and her freakish motley little court of cripples and outcasts and oddities, but there is a debt of life betwixt the two of them, and Baratheons do not forget such things. She owes Jenny, and Jenny Mudd is not the sort to dangle a debt over anyone’s head. Yet Rhaenys, arguably only alive due to her father’s mistress’ timely- and prophesized, a voice snarls- intercession, summons up all the glares that Argella cannot. She has never forgiven Duncan for having Jenny, and while Argella has done her duty and attempted to reason her out of this palpable contempt- it is no stain on Rhaenys’ honor, after all, everyone knows who her mother is- she has not had much luck.

Nor does she want to. There is something endearing about it, in a sense, even if Jenny’s bright smile turns crestfallen when it passes over Rhaenys’ familiar sneer of disdain. Argella even hates her a little for aging so gracefully- there is no trace of grey in her auburn mane of hair, her face is remarkably unlined for a woman who’s spent much of her life outside, there is no pained hesitance in her steps as she bounds ahead to lead them indoors with all the vitality and energy of a girl half her age. 

“We’ve been decorating for ages,” she exclaims, waving her hands- Jenny talks with her hands, something Argella finds very entertaining- and gesturing at what must be hundreds of garlands of fresh flowers from the gardens festooning the great hall, wreathed around the stained glass windows depicting the rise of Valyria on one side, the fall of Valyria on the other. Her sandaled feet beat a chipper pattern on the ornate tiled floor, and when she spins back around, eager for approval of her efforts, Argella catches the look of warm, hungry love on Duncan’s face, as though he were standing before a roaring fire and toasting his hands. 

“It looks wonderful, my lady,” Betha pronounces gracefully, standing as tall and erect at fifty five as she did at twenty five, although her dark hair is peppered with silvery threads. She holds onto Aegon’s arm more for his sake than her own; he does look aged, Argella notes, although not half so aged as Ser Duncan the Tall, whose beard finally has more white than brown to it, and who for the first time begins to seem slightly dwarfed by his own greatsword. 

It truly is a family affair; there are some retainers and the regular knights, of course, but no other prominent family or Great House is represented here save for the Targaryens, just as Aegon intended it. Daeron was accompanied by Jeremy Norridge, of course, but it has been accepted that attempting to separate those two is impossible years ago now. Many believe Daeron will be named to the Kingsguard when Ser Duncan has passed on, so he might serve his brother’s rule, but Daeron has always been a rebel, and Argella thinks he would rather keep his options open, so that he and Norridge might go skipping across the Narrow Sea to fight pirates or join up with the Second Sons whenever they please.

Jenny’s dear little Heart is kept well out of sight. Argella imagines they had advance warning that if Duncan’s wife laid eyes upon the woman who predicted her son and daughter must wed, she might very well try to throttle her and put an end to all the talk and rumors right then and there. They are not wrong. She may not be as temperamental as she was in her youth, but aged has never been much of a deterrence for a Baratheon’s moods. Her father is getting on in years and can still roar like a storm when roused. But it will not rain. It will not rain and as the week of festivities begins she goes to sleep every night expecting to wake up to the windows soaked through and the curtains damp. But it will not rain.

“When we left King’s Landing, we hadn’t had rain for six weeks,” Betha acknowledges on that last night, as she and Argella hold the high seats of honor and watch the dancing and feasting from the dais. Duncan is drinking with the common household guards, unsurprisingly, and Rhaenys is out on the terrace playing some game with Aemon and Elaena that involves being blindfolded and spun around, then trying to chase the others. Fortunately she did not bring her sword. Baela and Viserys have already been put to bed, although in truth they are probably sitting up with Jenny and a few of her friends, listening to the most queer and wild tales imaginable, like to give them nightmares that Argella will have to soothe. Rhaella is sitting beside Aelinor, who is letting her feel her babe kick- Argella thinks Maegor was a fool to bring a woman who really should be entering her confinement soon here, but Daenora passed from a stroke ten months ago, and he has no siblings. His only real family beyond his kingly cousin’s brood is his wife and soon to be child. Aelinor, a sweet young woman of Driftmark born and bred, confided in Argella that they planned to name the babe Daenora if it was a girl, Daenor for a boy. 

“An ill omen,” Argella is mostly japing, but no one has forgotten the drought preceding and during the Summer Sweats and the Rebellion, either. “Mayhaps all this clamor we’ve been making will wake the gods up.”

“Mayhaps,” Betha sighs. She and Argella have reached an accord at this point that they never could have had even ten years past. Argella is not sure if it just age soothing both of their egos and tempers, or if they have simply chosen to bond together rather than fall further apart. Betha has lost one daughter, after all, and does not see the other, quite content in cozy little Riverrun, near as oft as she would like. Argella is not her daughter, but they’ve more than enough in common after years of being wed into the same mad family. “I would have preferred a quiet dinner back at Raventree Hall. Or a little tourney, perhaps. Maybe a progress through the Reach to see the orchards. Instead I am faced with…”

“Spells and sorcery,” Argella finishes for her. The eggs have already been laid out in their braziers in preparation for the morrow. “Well, it’s not too late to call the whole thing off.” If anyone could talk some sense into Aegon, it would be his beloved wife. But Aegon is up in the solar with Jae and Tall Dunk, examining the stars with some maester to see if they bode well for the planned ritual. 

“It is,” Betha says. “It is too late. Not just to call this off, but for a great many things.” She groans, and Argella hears her age in it. “I love Aegon just as fiercely as I did when we first wed. It is only everything else that we seem to stumble over. Our children. Our politics. Our future.”

“You’ve no desire to see dragons soar overhead again?” Argella wants to smile, to show how ridiculous she finds all this, what a waste of time and money and energy, but she cannot. She keeps glancing towards the windows, waiting for the comforting patter of rain. Nothing. 

“When I was young, perhaps,” Betha says. “I would have found it thrilling as a girl. But once you reach a certain age, I find you stop longing for fiery new beginnings, and start praying for a peaceful ending. That’s what I’d like for my name day,” she smiles faintly. “A peaceful ending.”

There is still no rain the next morning, but when the wind picks up Argella finds herself bracing nonetheless. The wind makes Elaena think of Elenei, and she chatters on about it all through their breakfast. “If I wake a dragon, I’ll name her Elenei,” she says with every bit of intense sobriety a ten year old can muster. “After the goddess. Wouldn’t that be fine, Papa?”

“Very,” says Duncan distractedly, as he mops up Viserys’ spilled juice and Argella is busy trying to get Baela to stop standing up in her seat. “An excellent name for a dragon.”

“They’re supposed to be named after the Valyrian gods, not those of the First Men,” Aemon points out with a slight smile.

“Right,” Rhaenys rolls her eyes, “the famous Valyrian god, Dreamfyre.”

Aerys coughs on his milk, snickering, but Aemon takes it in stride, whereas before he would have stammered or ducked his head. “The god of fiery dreams, come on, keep up Rhae-,”

“Brat,” Rhaenys flicks him on the ear; Rhaella bravely pokes her in the rib, coming to his defense. 

It is different when they are all gathered in the hall and the braziers are being lit, as the sun reaches its highest peak overhead, and a rainbow cacophony of light spills across the tiles. Jenny watches from the upper gallery with her little court, and leans perilously over the railing to wave down at Duncan, who gamely waves back. Argella takes her assigned place in the background, as she is not a Targaryen by birth and will not be included in this, alongside Betha and Aelinor, and Baela and Viserys, who were deemed too young. She ignores the frantic little leaps in her stomach. She should be relaxed. Once this attempt is over and done with, they will be free to go. Aegon has not breathed a word about a match between Aemon and Rhaenys. Even Jae has held his tongue regarding it. 

When the braziers are all lit, the flames flickering around the multicolored eggs, they form seven points of bright light in the shape of a star. A septon shuffles into the middle, coughing from all the smoke and incense, to give a blessing and beseech the gods to look favorably upon this offering, and then Aegon steps forward, after pressing a soft kiss to Betha’s cheek. She seems reluctant to let go of his hand, but eventually does. Argella’s fingers are digging too hard into Baela’s shoulders; she loosens her grip when her daughter looks up at her accusingly. Viserys is fidgeting the way he often does during service in the sept. Aelinor moves to lean down to kindly shush him, the winces, holding her stomach. Maegor does not notice, having moved forward to flank the braziers with rest.

“Is it the babe?” Argella asks Aelinor quietly.

“He’s kicking hard,” she replies through gritted teeth, then relaxes when it passes. “He’s as strong as his father.”

“Maybe one of the eggs can be for him,” Baela suggests in a too-loud voice, and Argella hushes her.

The flames in the braziers are taller now, flaring up to the height of most of their heads. Argella can feel the heat even from here. The septon has left and pyromancers circle the flaming outline of the star, chanting and occasionally pouring oils into the flames. Everyone is dressed lightly but already drenched in sweat. Argella watches Duncan push some lank hair from his eyes, while Aemon stands stock still, fists clenched at his sides, fighting not to flinch back from the roaring brazier before him. 

Rhaenys stands defiantly positioned before her own, looking ready to abandon ship at any moment, while Rhaella blinks back tears from the heat and Aerys shifts uncomfortably. Maegor stands stalwart and strong but seems at a loss as to whether to treat the fire as friend or foe. Are they meant to all be praying, Argella wonders? She offers her own prayer, for a leak to spring in the roof and for a sudden flood of fetid water to douse this lunacy. 

Jaehaerys alone seems unbothered by the flames. He gazes into their dancing shapes intently as if they were speaking to him and him alone. He is gaunt and pale and looks momentarily more ghost than man in the firelight. Argella glances up at the gallery, where Jenny is watching in consternation, her freckled hands clasped in her lap. Archmaester Gyldayn, the old lecher, is chanting something, but Argella can’t hear much. Then the knife appears, and makes the rotation. Aegon opens his palm first, and lets a few drops drip into the fire. The blade is swiftly wiped down and passed along.

Argella warned her children not to open their palms, but to nick the back of their hands instead; it will hurt less. She watches with bated breath, praying none of them fumble the blade and open a vein instead, but there are no mishaps. Aerys hesitates for a long moment before doing so, but having seen how readily Rhaella cut herself, doesn’t seem to want to look the coward, and finally gets it over with. A pyromancer throws something, some salt or spice or crushed mineral, into each of the braziers in turn, and most of them change color, from red and orange to blue or green or purple. When another comes forward with a small pot in hand, Argella stiffens.

“Is that wildfire?” she hisses to Betha. “They can’t mean to-,”

They can. The pot is tossed into the centermost brazier, which immediately shoots up with a plume of roaring jade flames. There are buckets of water and sand everywhere one turns, but it does not lessen her fear. “It’s only a small amount,” Aelinor is reassuring her, “look, they’re watching it-,”

One of the other braziers creaks and groans metallically, and collapses to the floor. Maegor jumps back with a muffled shout, just as the next one does. This fire should not be strong enough to warp metal, Argella thinks, it should not- but it is. Despite all the opened windows both and the ground and gallery floor, the room is hazy with smoke, and her head is swimming. “You should step outside,” Betha is telling Aelinor, “this isn’t good for the babe-,”

“My husband is here,” Aelinor argues, “I cannot leave him now-,”

A third brazier collapses with a scream, and not one made by metal. There’s a sudden rushing sound, a terrible howl, and Argella yanks Viserys back as a screeching shape flies by, be it shadow or smoke or mist-

“What is that?” Duncan yells distantly, but he is across the room, and she cannot call back-

“Get the children out,” Betha tells her suddenly, grabbing her elbow. “Now. They can’t control it-,’

Everyone has backed away from their respective fires, and Argella feels the horrible prickling once more. She looks to the nearest Kingsguard, locks eyes with Harbert, and nods. She is herding Viserys and Baela towards him when a second terrible screeching begins, there is the sound of running feet, and one of the large jars of sand shatters, then another, sending it spilling across the smooth floor. Someone shouts, someone else screams, and faintly, a window splinters, glass crashing to the ground. 

If you asked her what happened next, she could not tell you, only the great tidal wave of terror that goes crashing over everyone, the screams and cries of panic, and the mass rush of moving feet and shoving limbs as anyone and everyone present attempt to make for the nearest doorways. She is conscious of getting her two youngest to Harbert, then turning back for the other children, only for Jeremy Norridge to grab her and bodily haul her through an archway, down several stone steps, and kick open a wooden door leading outdoors. “GET AWAY,” he roars, sending her sprawling to the ground, then dashes back inside. She tries to follow, only for Viserys to run up to her, wailing, saying he can’t find Baela, and then she turns, and then sees Rhaenys and Aemon being herded out of another exit by a coughing Daeron, and then Aelinor is screaming for Betha to stop as she runs back in to find Aegon-

“DUNCAN!” Argella yells, shoving past several fleeing servants, because there were plenty of exits, surely everyone is outdoors by now. “Rhaenys, come here! Aemon, where is Elaena? DUNCAN- Rhaella!”

Rhaella is helping a limping Aerys to sit down on the ground, his ankle clearly twisted; her skirts are torn and there is a long scrape on her arm from where she must have fallen herself. “Rhaella, where is Elaena-,”

“PUT ME DOWN!” a woman is screaming and cursing, and Argella whirls around to see Duncan the Tall deposit a flailing Jenny on the ground, then brace her with a massive hand when she jumps back up and attempts to run back inside. “No, Duncan-,”

“Jenny!” Argella trips over her own skirts running to her, and nearly loses a shoe. Her breath is burning in her lungs; thick black clouds of smoke are darkening the balmy sky overhead, propelled by the fierce wind. “Jenny, where is Duncan-,”

“He was carrying Elaena, I tried to go down to get them,” Jenny babbles, “I tried, I can go back in, I can-,”

Ser Duncan is already sprinting back towards the building, even as another window shatters. Argella looks around frantically, trying to count heads. Maegor is on his hands and knees on the ground, vomiting. Aelinor is sprawled beside him, clutching her belly and wailing. “DUNCAN! ELAENA!” Argella yells again, as more servants and a few knights come streaming out through the nearest doorway, and then the resounding explosion that follows knocks her to the ground, along with anyone else standing nearby. 

When she is aware of what is happening against, ash is everywhere. On her skin, in her mouth, coating her hair white. She palms are encrusted arms in blind panic, tries to spit and can’t, begins to retch and gag, only for a strong arm to lock around her waist and all but drag her into more breathable air. Her eyes are burning and streaming tears; she doubles over, coughing, and looks up at Harbert, who is shaking and crying. He did not even weep when he lost his eye. She has not seen him cry like this since before she was wed, when he was still a little boy. 

“I’m sorry,” he keeps saying, “Gella, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t- there wasn’t time-”

“Mother!” A solid frame collides with her, she turns with a strange moan to embrace Rhaenys; Aemon is half a step behind her. “Come out of the smoke,” Rhaenys is saying between her own coughs, “you have to move, come on-,”

Argella stumbles blindly after her two eldest, meek as a lamb, and then she can finally see more than a few feet in front of her own face. They are out in the sprawling gardens, but splintered wood and shattered stone and glass are littered everywhere, all the fountains have been reduced to mere trickles, and the great bathing pool and waterways are clogged with debris. Something rumbles in the distance; is it thunder or a roof caving in? Viserys is hunched over, trying to drink the water, until Baela pulls him away. “Look, it’s Mother, Vis, stop it-,”

Nearby a woman is shrieking. Argella looks over and sees Aelinor in the throes of labor far too early, clutching Maegor’s white knuckled hand, her skirts hitched up round her waist, blood and other fluids trickling down her legs. “Someone get a maester!” he is shouting, but no one is coming. Argella could be told that they were the last people in the world, the very last of them, and she would believe it. 

“Where- where is your father? Where’s Elaena?” she demands of Rhaenys. Aemon is rubbing at his eyes, but they remain dry. 

Rhaenys just looks at her dumbly. Argella wants to shake her. “Tell me where you last saw them-,”

“Argella.” Daeron has stripped off most of his armor, as has Jeremy. He is sitting on the ground like a child, his face shiny red, his blonde hair plastered to his scalp. He just looks up at her. Jeremy is slumped beside him, breathing shallowly into a wet rag, choking with every other breath. He shakes his head. “No one else is coming out of that alive.”

“No,” says Argella, wanting to laugh at how absurd this is, because this can’t be right, it can’t, what- how could- why did they- “No, where are they? Where’s your father and mother, Daer? Where’s Jae? Ser Duncan went back-,”

“There’s nothing left,” he says hoarsely, and then there is an almighty crack, the crawling prickling buzzing feeling vanishes all at once, and she looks up with a gasp as the heavens open up. The rain does not begin as a mere drizzle or pattering; it pours down in buckets as though they were pulled straight from a well. It hits them all with a sheet of water, then another, an unrelenting downpour that immediately drenches her to the bone. Steam hisses and billows across the hot, cracked, dry ground. Mud swirls around her feet, coats her shoes and the hems of her skirt brown and black. 

It presses onward, an unrelenting march of water, and the wind howls once, lonely and awful, and the wind blows, and she stands there, stiff with shock, until it has cleared the smoke enough that she can begin to make out the remains of the main inner keep. There are a few scattered walls and arches. Nothing else remains, as if it were plucked up from the ground by a giant. Slowly, she begins to walk forward, although every step feels like torture when faced with this water, like she’s trying to cross through a waterfall without being crushed to the ground.

She walks on until the screams and cries of the living fall away, and she stands alone, a sole island in a sea of grey and brown, and her clothes cling to her skin, and her hair coils around her neck like a thousand hissing snakes. She opens her mouth to cry out again, but there is no yelling in this flood, so she closes it. She can barely see straight. She cups her hands around her eyes, and finally makes out the huddled form of Jenny of Oldstones, who hunches on the ground half-naked, as if the water had torn at her clothes, her fingers locked deep in the mud and silt, her hair hanging in front of her face like a dark red veil, and a series of howls rocking her frame, one after another. She is clutching something in her hands.

Argella falls to her knees beside her, and recognizes it as Elaena’s hair ribbon, which Duncan fixed mindlessly just this morning, as it was about to fall out yet again.

“No,” she says, but it is drowned out by the howls, both man-made and natural. “No.”

Perhaps it rains like that for hours. Perhaps for minutes. When it finally begins to clear, Argella remains where she is, beside Jenny, as though they had become conjoined in their grief, rooted together to this ground. She thinks she may never walk again. She may never sleep, eat, love- she wants to vomit but nothing will come up. She is so very wet and cold, her body racked with shivers. Finally a cloak settles around her, and she looks up at Harbert, who slowly helps her to her feet. Daeron is offering Jenny his, but she shoves it away with an inhuman sort of scream, and buries her face in her hands.

Argella is still standing there, just staring at the rubble, when she hears running feet. She turns to see Rhaella, out of breath, panting, hysterical. “Do you- do your hear that?” the girl gasps out. “It’s- someone’s crying-,” she points towards the wreckage. Argella’s ears still faintly ring, but with the rain lessened and the flames died out, she can still strain to listen. She does hear it.

She moves forward, Rhaella clutching her wet hand, their palms sliding together, and she can feel her niece’s blood from the newly opened cut, but she doesn’t care, she only has this shred of hope to cling to, that the faint crying, the mewling squeaks might be- might be- Rhaella is lighter and smaller and she scrambles over broken beams and fallen stones with ease, while Argella struggles after her, then stops. “Elaena?” she whispers, hollowly, when Rhaella comes to a halt. The cries are louder now. They both drop to their hands and knees and start to sift through the rubble. 

“Elaena!” Argella cries, her hands splintered and cut, but she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care at all, she can hear Ellyn in her voice telling her to stay, kissing her neck and begging her to stay, I should have stayed, we should have stayed in that bed, in that room, on Dragonstone, forever-

Rhaella cries out in shock, and Argella looks. There is no corpse or charred remains laid out before her. Instead Rhaella has cupped something in her hands, a piece of cloth? A twisted bit of metal? But it is moving. Argella sits there, frozen in place, as Harbert struggles over to them, calling for them to come away, it’s still dangerous, don’t be foolish-

Rhaella turns to her, and Argella looks at the tiny, scaly creature, clinging the ripped front of her gown. It is jade green, green as wildfire, and it’s wingspan can be no larger than that of a crow, but its tail beats frantically like a cat against Rhaella’s bloody hands, and its long, sinewed neck stretches up to rasp a serpentine tongue against her collarbone, and she doesn’t know who says “Elenei” but one of them does, and that lingers on her tongue long after the ash has been washed away. Elenei. Elenei. Elenei.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit! Oh thank god that's over. Jesus. I never thought I'd be done with this fic.
> 
> Notes?:
> 
> 1\. Storytime: I first conceived of this fic because I wanted to write another, much more long-term overarching fic with a few of the same characters, and I thought this could be a fun little one shot to just test out some Targ family dynamics and maybe get a sense for the events leading up to Summerhall. It was intended to be an AU only in that it would feature a married Duncan with heirs, but nearly all other deaths and events and whatnot were supposed to stay the same. We see how well that turned out. As it turns out, it's really difficult to cover so much ground in just a one or two shot. Had I been smart, I would have limited this entire fic to the events immediately before, during, and after Summerhall and figured out a way to introduce Argella and her relationships through the lens of this big dysfunctional family reunion with a horrific ending. I am not smart, haha.
> 
> 2\. Argella. Rough draft Argella was very different; pretty quiet, shy, and demure, but I hated how that seemed to make her (the way it came across through my writing, at least, at this eternally pitied victim essentially tossed to the side by Duncan and subject to the weird whims of his extended family. I reworked the character and changed everything about her except for her having a romance with her best friend, Ellyn Morrigen. I considered this a good exercise in writing yet another unlikable (or not necessarily likable) female POV. I find that *generally* this fandom has zero fucking tolerance for women in ASOIAF who are not, to put it lightly, living saints. I'm not saying every fic has this problem or that it means we should all strive to start patting characters like Cersei on the back, but it is definitely a trend. (I'm not saying that every fan gives the male villains or morally grey characters in ASOIAF a pass, either. I think we should be able to go 'God, she's a vindictive, petty bitch sometimes, isn't she?' and then go 'but that was a cool internal monologue she just gave, still!'.) 
> 
> 3\. Boy did the plot for this fic get out of hand quick! As usual, I wanted to do way too much for a fic I was updating once a week as a fun little side project on top of Haunt/Hunt. It did give me a lot of ideas for things I want to focus on in the future, and it forced me to actually write some Targaryen characters and set some chapters on Dragonstone or in King's Landing without it making me miserably bored. Overall I hate the pacing for this fic and I feel like there's a ton of missed opportunities with other characters like Rhaelle, but I hope to rectify that through other fics in the future. 
> 
> 4\. Jenny's cool and I want to write more of her in the future too. I think there's this insane parallel/inversion/foil with what happens with Tyrion and Tysha and what happens with Duncan and Jenny. Duncan is the 'prince/lord falls for the charming peasant girl' played straight, I guess, and Tyrion is sort of the worst case scenario situation. I just think it's interesting to compare the two.
> 
> 5\. I did not know how old Jon Arryn was or Doran Martell was until I double checked for this fic. This last chapter is set in 256 AC, not 259 AC, because I didn't 'need' to delay until Rhaegar's birth because Rhaegar doesn't exist here and I didn't want to jump 8 years into the future, so we did just 5 instead. Jon Arryn was born around 220 AC, so he was already in his mid thirties when say, Steffon Baratheon and Rickard Stark were still kids. Doran was not born until around 247 AC, making him actually two years older than Tywin. 
> 
> 6\. "Why would you introduce a dragon within the last few lines of a fic? What was the point of that?" The cool aesthetics, mostly, and at this point we were so far afield from canon, why not? If someone's going to be the first person to lay hands on a dragon in this generation, why not Rhaella? 
> 
> 7\. "Is Ellyn just writing 'Fire & Blood'?" Yes, but with 100% less lewd speculation on the sexuality and/or rape, marital or otherwise, of underage girls.
> 
> 8\. If you have things you'd like to see me write about in the realm of ASOIAF, let me know. I'm always open to new ideas. Finally, thank you all for being so supportive and overall enthusiastic and sweet about this fic, which is very, very niche, concerns no popular characters, and has a very strange/uneven plot arc and a very unlikely main character.
> 
> 9\. You can find me on tumblr at [dwellordream](https://dwellordream.tumblr.com/).


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